


Fighting the Spiders

by telemachus



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: All kinds of unpleasantness offscreen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Dark, Good Daddy Thranduil, Implied Torture, M/M, Not a Happy Story, People Trafficking, fluff if you squint, gratuitous product mentions & Britishisms, mention of drug use, mention of forced prostitution, seriously this is not a nice story, warnings for all kinds of nastiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:42:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 23
Words: 70,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2418875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A modern Middle-Earth-ish world, Legolas is the financial director of his father's trading empire. But as well as all the legitimate business, there is a darker side to these elves. Life should be sweet when you have money, everything money can buy, good looks, and a loving father. But - somehow - it isn't that simple.</p><p>Maybe the company needs an audit......</p><p>Rated mostly for later chapters, mostly implied and offscreen, but could be triggering I guess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Shit.

Should not be doing this.

But – oh shit – he kisses – like he’s on fire. Or something. 

Yeah. That metaphor could be better.

Fucks sake Gimli.

Mm.

Kisses couldn’t.

Out the taxi. Fuck, might have known he’d live in some up-itself fancy flat. No. Apartment. This is not a flat.

In the lift. Mouths locked together again. Fuck but he’s good. Hands everywhere. Mahal, the leanness of him, the muscle. Hair loose, swinging over my face. 

Fuck.

And then – inside – and – oh holy Durin – he’s straight down on his knees. Nuzzling against me, undoing me with – oh shit – his mouth – while – oh shit – he’s opening a condom – where was that? in his pocket? – and – oh fuck – no way – no sodding way – but he is. He is actually unrolling it onto me – with his mouth – and – his hands are on my hips, holding me – pulling me in – oh shit – never had this before – bloody elves.

Always do everything perfectly.

Fuck that feels good. 

He looks up at me, and then pulls back – with the most – amazingly obscene sound – and,  
“Slow down, dwarf,” he says, “thought you wanted to shag me bandy?”

Shit. Bloody elf hearing.

He stands up again, but somehow, while he was down there, he seems to have kicked off his boots, and his jeans are – not stuck round his ankles, like any mortal’s, oh no, bloody elf – jeans are on the floor – no underwear of course – and he turns away from me, bending – oh Durin help me – bending forward over the back of the fancy leather sofa. 

And – Mahal but elves don’t believe in hanging about – he is all lubed up and ready. No doubt why he goes out on a Friday night. 

“Yes?” he asks, and I realise he thinks I am hesitating.

“Admiring the view,” I say, and then I am behind him, and – I see he is scrambling to take his top off, so I reach forward – pressing myself against him, feeling his desperate push back so needy he is – and twist my hand in his collar,

“Leave it,” I say, “looks good.” Don’t know why, just – looks sexier than naked somehow. And he instantly stops, doing as I say, and the thrill is – uncomfortably strong. Can’t help myself – he just looks so good – and he seems to like it – I slap his arse, watch him quiver, hear his gasp, 

“Yes?” I say, “you want me to fuck you? Say it, elf.”

“Yes,” he says, “yes, please, fuck me, like this, now, hard, please.”

That was pretty clear, I think, so – oh Durin forgive me – I do. Hard. Like he said. And he is hot, and tight, and good, and he moans, he cries out, he comes, no need to touch him, no need to do anything at all except – thrust in as hard, as deep, as often as I can, until I come inside him. Well, inside the condom. Fuck that feels good. 

And then I pull out of him, start the slightly unpleasant process of taking the condom off, carefully, knotting it, and doing my flies up. Thinking – oh fuck. Now the haze of lust has worn off, this is going to be pretty sodding awkward. 

Neither of us is that drunk. Drunk enough to do this, not drunk enough not to know we shouldn’t have.

He is my boss. 

Well, employer.

Shit. Really, really shouldn’t have done that.

Better make my excuses and go.

But somehow – when he turns to face me, still half dressed, hair mussed up, sticky, and not quite perfect anymore – somehow, he looks so young, so – vulnerable – that when he says, 

“Tubes’ll be fucked this time of night. You’ll be half way home before you find a taxi. Stay – you could – I – its Saturday tomorrow. No need to be up early,” I find I want to – even before he adds, “besides, I’m not bandy yet. Need to work through a lot more of a packet if you’re going to manage that.”

Shouldn’t do this.

But – I’m going to.


	2. Saturday Morning

He is asleep. Snoring even.

Can’t remember the last time I let someone stay and sleep.

Fuck.

Don’t lie to yourself.

You never let anyone stay before.

Oh fuck.

 

And I know, I know, I have to stop, stop lying to him, to myself. 

But, it’s Friday night. 

Saturday morning now.

Fuck it.

One day. One day, one more night.

Not so much to ask, is it?

 

 

I know, Ada, I know I said I wouldn’t.

I lied.

Again.

Fuck.

 

It’s strange, lying here. Watching the light change, the dawn come.

Listening to him.

His arm flung carelessly over me.

Strange in a good way.

And I wish, how I wish, I could have this. Not just one more stolen night, but really. Properly.

Forever.

 

Fuck.

What makes you think he would want that?

 

He wouldn’t. Not if he knew.

You only got him here by lies.

Liar.

 

I don’t want to hurt him.

It wasn’t meant to be like this.

Oh Ada, why did I not listen to you?

 

At least I can lie here awake, enjoy it while it lasts.

Advantage of being an elf. I need not sleep, need not miss one moment of his presence, warm and real and here, here in my flat, in my bed.

It occurs to me I have not watched another rest since my brothers and I were small elflings, since we used to curl up together. This – this is quite different. Yet there is the same feeling of safety, however false. False now, false then, as it turned out.

 

Full daylight now.

I wonder, I wonder – would it be so much worse to play this game all day, all tonight?

Be truthful tomorrow.

As truthful as I can.

Change the lies.

 

 

I look at the clock. 

Gone nine.

Surely, even after the night we had, he’ll wake soon.

He’s turned away now. 

Still snoring.

Would you really want this every night?

 

Yes.

 

I slide carefully out of the bed, not waking him, so practised at this from all the times I have gone back to another’s bed and left, never daring to get involved. Not quite silent, but pretty damn close. Advantage of being an elf.

I go through to the kitchen. 

Breakfast. It would be nice to make him breakfast.

Fuck.

I don’t think like this. 

Never have before.

Don’t recognise myself.

But – it would be nice. I look round the room. What do people have for breakfast?

Coffee.

Fuck. 

Machine broke. 

Never bothered to sort it. Why would I? Costa’s on the way to work.

Ok. Not coffee.

Tea, then. I’ve seen him drink tea. Maybe he likes it in the morning. I don’t know. 

Fuck.

No milk.

No sugar.

No tea.

I hate tea.

Juice?

Yes. I have juice. 

Nice juice. Juice that lives in the fridge. Juice with bits in. 

Good bits. Not skanky, furry bits.

What else?

Come on, Las, you can’t wake him up with juice. Not and tempt him to stay. 

I don’t eat breakfast.

Ever.

What the fuck do people eat for breakfast?

Bacon. Eggs. Cereal. Toast.

No. Don’t have any.

Fuck.

Think. 

What do I have in the flat?

Chocolate.

Seriously?

No.

Fruit.

People eat fruit for breakfast.

He doesn’t. Clearly. 

Only have to look at him. He is not a fruit-for-breakfast type.

Fuck.

This is not going well.

 

I suppose, I could skip the food part. 

Wake him with sex. More sex.

No.

He’s not that sort. That is, he very much is that sort, oh sweet Eru he is that sort, but – he is not the sort to do without breakfast. 

Ever.

If I don’t have any, he’ll go. And – then this will be over. I’ll have to finish it.

For his own good.

Fuck.

 

 

I look at him again through the open door. 

He doesn’t seem likely to wake.

There is Costa two minutes from here. Coffee. Croissants. Muffins, I don’t know, something. 

But – what if he goes?

I hesitate.

 

I – I could leave a note.

Does that look needy?

Fuck it.

I am needy.

For once in my life, I will admit it.

 

 

So, I write the note. 

_Gone to get breakfast. Five minutes?_   
_Don’t leave me to drink both coffees. I’ll over-caffeine._   
_x._

I put it on his phone, by the bed.

I grab my jeans, his shirt, I leave the room.

He’s still snoring.

He can’t go if I wear his top.

 

 

 

I turn the key in the door. Not quite silent, but pretty damn close. Advantage of being an elf. 

In. 

Carefully shut door. Quietly.

His boots, still here. 

I let out the breath I have carefully not been holding all this time. He is still here.

But, before I can move further, I hear him speaking.

He must be on the phone.

Ok. So he has someone he has to tell where he is.

On a Saturday morning.

Doesn’t have to mean anything.

Could be a mate. He runs. Could be someone he runs with.

Football.

Something like that.

I listen.

 

“Fucks sake, Fi, I told you, I don’t have time for this shit. He said five minutes. In the note.   
I don’t know.  
Fucks it matter where he’s bloody buying breakfast?  
We agreed. Last night was off the clock.  
Didn’t count.  
I’ll tell him.  
I said.  
I’ll tell him.  
Promise.  
Yeah. Alright. I’ll call you.  
Oh shit. Yeah. Dad’s expecting us for lunch.  
Take care, Fi. See you later.”

 

 

Fi?

Didn’t count?

Tell me what?

His dad’s expecting them – _them_ – for lunch?

Take care?

 

 

No.

I don’t want to hear it.

I stand here, in the hallway of my flat, frozen.

And I wonder how did it come to this?

 

 

Can’t stay here forever, Las. 

So, he’s a lying bastard.

Something else we have in common then, I tell myself, it doesn’t matter. Come on, Las, you knew it had to end today. Finish it. Or do you really want him to find you stood here? Are you going to let the tears come, disgrace yourself completely? Lose all your pride?

Really, what difference does it make? He was never going to be here this time next week. 

Just – it means he’s lied all this time.

If he has someone, he’s lied every day.

Just like me. 

But – I thought he was different.

I push open the door.

 

He is sat there, on the side of the bed. Still looking at the screen of his phone.

So. Not a very good liar.

Not practiced.

Not like me.

 

 

He turns as I enter. 

He smiles, and had I not heard his words, was there not this raging jealousy inside, I would say that smile, that smile meant something.

“You didn’t have to go out for coffee. I’m not fussy,” he begins, but I can’t do this.

“Yes, I did. Fuck, I wish I hadn’t,” I say, “but I did. And I heard you. So. Tell me. Whatever it is, whoever Fi is, tell me.”

And his face changes.

The last, tiny flag of hope that I misunderstood, falls. I put the tray down. I don’t want my shaking hands to show. I turn away, look out the window.

“Fi,” I say, “your girl? You were on a break? Or curious? She said once would be ok? Come on, Nairn, tell me. You promised her.”

He is still silent. Then,  
“Oh you are so bloody wrong. It’s not how you think, not how it sounded. Fuck. I shouldn’t have..........”

“No,” I say, “you shouldn’t. But you did. We did. I shouldn’t have, for that matter. Because now, now when I tell you on Monday the audit’s over, it has to be over, you’ve had time, you need to go, you’re going to think you can make trouble. But – really – don’t. You don’t want that. Any follow-up they’ll have to send someone else. I don’t want you coming back. Ever. Just – walk away.”

“What?” he wasn’t expecting this, “what the fuck? Why? Because – because of last night? You can’t do that......”

I don’t look at him.

“No,” I say again, “Not because of last night. Last night only happened because – because I thought it would be ok. Because I thought – if you leave on Monday – it would be safe. I – I can’t explain. Just – just believe me. Walk out. Don’t ask questions. You don’t want the answers.”

And I know I am griping the window frame, my knuckles turning white. Please. Don’t ask. I can’t tell you. You don’t want this. Walk away. While you can. I like you too much. Whatever lies you told me, it doesn’t matter. I like you. I – I think it could be more. Only I can’t do that to you. I don’t want to see you drawn in. Ada is right. I don’t want them to know how much I care. Don’t want to give them another hostage.

There is silence. I hear him stand, hear the rustle of clothes, hear him pick up a coffee, drink, and I think the next thing I hear will be the slam of the door. And the cold silence of my life will come back.

Saturday. I think. What do I normally do? Run. Fail to fix the coffee machine. Fail to sort out any of the things that need doing in my flat. Get dressed up. Go clubbing. Pull. Go back to someone’s flat. Get fucked. Come home alone. Wait for Sunday. Do the same again. Wait for Monday. Go to work. Speak to someone who knows my name.

It seems even colder and more empty than usual.

And next week, next week I will not even see him on Monday.

But I am wrong. The door does not sound. He speaks, and he is close behind me.

“No. I won’t ask questions. But – how about if I tell you what I know, and then you tell me how someone like you ended up in this shit?”

What?

What does he think he knows?

I stand, waiting. Dear Eru, is this – is this the answer? Is he – I don’t know – is he going to have a way out of this trap? I don’t see how. I don’t see what can change. All he can do is join me in it, and I will not have that. Whatever it takes, I will not. I should never have brought him here. I should have listened to Ada. I – I do not want to see him hurt.

He is innocent.

He sighs, and takes the silence as consent.

“I know. I know about the – the product – the other product. The imports that aren’t strictly on the books. The ones you hide. The ones your father’s company brings in illicitly. The money you have to wash clean. And you do it well, oh you do, you’re clever. It’s taken us years to follow it. But, we have, through the convenience stores, the nightclubs, back and on, all the transfers between accounts, between your father’s companies, and – you are in it up to your pretty neck. This flat, all your fancy things, your clothes, car, sports, every penny you spend. All paid for with blood. And – you – you’re not what I thought you’d be. You – if I didn’t know – I’d say you were a nice guy. For an elf. So – why?”

As he speaks, I bow my head.

“My father’s business,” I say, and I know it sounds weak, “I’ve lived on the money all my life. Before I knew. Before I could even begin to understand. I’m good at my job. I – fuck it – I don’t have to justify myself to you.” I am angry now, I turn to face him, “Who are you anyway? Fucking customs? Revenue? What is this? A – what’s the word – honey trap? Is that it? You bastard. You liar. And you think that makes you better than me? You going to say I didn’t have to take the bait? I could say the same. Way I see it, no-one has to buy the stuff. It’s just giving them a choice. There’s legal drink, or there’s our miruvor. There’s legal highs, or there’s our athelas. There’s legal recourse, or there’s our weapons. Fuck – you know how long we’ve been bringing this stuff in? Since before it was “illegal”, that’s how long. Why should we change just because the laws of Men change? No-one has to buy. It’s all just an opportunity for choice. Same as you offering to come to my bed. Just – they know it’s illegal. I didn’t know you were setting me up.” I almost laugh, “Not that it’s going to do you much good. Do you honestly think there is anyone who doesn’t know I’m queer?” and now I do laugh, “Ada even told me not to sleep with you. So what do you gain by it? A confession – you wearing a wire now? Recording me on your phone? – won’t stand up in law. Not after you slept with me. Fucked me. And there’s enough damn DNA on those condoms to prove that.”

He is shaking his head, and the look on his face – I don’t know what to make of it. 

“No. I said. Last night – it was off the clock. I – I don’t know why – I shouldn’t have – I – I liked you. I thought – you liked me. But – fuck, Las – how – how can you talk about choices? What choice do the hobbits have? Once your people have their hands on them?”

I don’t know what he means.

“Hobbits?” I ask, “what do you mean, hobbits? We don’t have much trade with Shire.”

He looks at me again,  
“Fuck, how stupid do you think we – SOCA – are? The other product, the new line, the one that brings in such returns. The one that your goons dumped a boat load of in the North Sea last February. Seventy hobbits. Drowned, because one of our boats was coming. They can’t swim.”

I shake my head.

“No.”

He looks at me.

“No. We don’t. Ada wouldn’t. No.” But things are starting to click together inside my head. Too many little pieces, too many things that make sense now.

Too many questions I didn’t ask.

Too many answers I didn’t want to hear.

He looks at me. He scrolls through his phone. He shows me the photos. Corpses. Little ones. Bloated from the sea. Date stamped.

I remember that boat. That load. I remember thinking it was one less set of figures to wash, less work.

I know, as it seems he does not, it is hardly the only load of – new product – dumped. Or unloaded with some “already spoilt” and – for the first time – I understand what that means. DOA.

“Not sure they aren’t the lucky ones,” he says, and – I don’t want to know what he means.

I feel sick.

“That line. You’ve been running it how long – two, three years? Minimum two boats a month. Average fifty a boat. Fifty that make it. You know what happens to them? You ever asked?”

Two boats a month? Fuck. So much for SOCA. Two a week would be closer. Not that it is ever as regular as that. It is not a fucking bus service. 

I shake my head.

“No.” I can’t take in what he’s saying. No. Ada wouldn’t. 

“Some of them – the lucky ones – they go to Lincolnshire, to the fens, to fruit farms, agricultural labour, see. Cheap. They can’t leave. They can’t complain. They work well – it’s in their natures. Poor little sods. Do you want to know what happens to the others?”

I shake my head,  
“No.” Don’t tell me this. I can’t hear it. I didn’t know.

“The others. Some of them – domestics. Cleaners. Stuff like that. Cheap. Can’t leave. can’t complain. No papers. No right to be here. Powerless. Beaten. Probably raped, some of them. Killed I expect. We don’t know. Do you want to know about the others, the really unlucky ones, the pretty ones, the young ones?”

Still shaking my head.

“No.” This isn’t happening. No. I wouldn’t do this. Ada wouldn’t do this. 

“Don’t hide your head in your hands, you worthless piece of shit. Don’t try and tell me you didn’t know. Didn’t know that your nice flat, your car, all your toys, your fun, your drink, your coke, your nights out, fuck, even your condoms, paid for by their blood, their pain. Sold into prostitution. No papers. No right to be here. Told lies about what the police would do to them. Given drugs – your drugs – to keep them quiet, make them addicted, tie them in. And – all of them – they know – your fucking cronies know where their families live. They know what might happen if they run.”

And now I can raise my head,  
“Not my cronies. They – they own us. But – I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I swear it. I – Ada can’t know. He wouldn’t.”

He laughs, hard and bitter,  
“Oh, he knows alright. You – I can almost believe you didn’t. That you’re enough of a fool not to ask. But your precious Ada, he knows. But – they aren’t elves, are they? Not much difference between one mortal and another. Is that it? Their pain – it’s only for a short time. They die, they don’t matter. Their whole lives, merely a blink of your eyes. Is that it?”

I shake my head again. And I don’t know what I am denying. That it happened, that it is still happening, that Ada knew, that I – I did this. I am guilty. If I didn’t know, it’s because I didn’t ask. I should have known, I should have bothered to find out. I am complicit. 

I have killed these innocents.

Tortured.

Raped.

Oh sweet Eru. What have I done?

 

I make it to the bathroom before I start vomiting.

Once I start, I can’t stop.

On and on.

As though I can vomit out every piece of food I have eaten in the last – what did he say – three years. As though that will help.

As though anything will take away this guilt.

I killed them.

I stood by, I let them be enslaved.

Raped.

 

 

After a while, he comes through.

He stands, watching me. 

Somewhere in my head, I remember how I felt about him, yesterday, last night, this morning. I remember that this should shame me. 

I care not.

I shiver. I am cold. 

I care not.

I have done this.

The pain goes on. I welcome it. It is the only way out of this.

 

 

At last, at last, all the feeling is bleeding away from me. My vision is fading.

 

 

He shakes me.

I care not. Let him do as he pleases. 

He slaps me,  
“Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t you dare fade on me, you little elven shit. You fade, and more of them die. You want that? You want to go to Mandos and say yes, I faded. I ran away. I did this and I ran away. Fuck, Las, no. Show me you are worth something. Put this right. Help me.”

I can’t. I hear him, but I can’t. I don’t want to. 

I did this.

I am guilty.

“Fuck. Bloody elf. You can’t just run away. You going to leave me in this shit? Fuck, you want me prosecuted for rape – that’s what it’ll be if you die like this – leaving all the evidence we fucked. You want that on your conscience as well?”

And somehow, that works. No, I don’t want that. I – I never wanted to hurt him. I remember that.

I manage to look up at him.

“I didn’t know,” I say again, I need him to believe me. “I swear. I did not know. I – I asked. I asked Ada what the new stuff was. He – he said – best not to know. I – I thought – he knows about the coke – I thought it was a drug he didn’t want me trying. He – he couldn’t meet my eyes,” I remember now, how odd that seemed, how I wondered what it was but, “he doesn’t ask much of me. He – I am all he has left. My brothers – were shot. A long while ago. By – I don’t know – one of yours, I suppose. My mother – we never found out exactly what they did to her.” I pause, “I didn’t anyway. I suppose Ada might know that as well. Since then – he – he can’t bear me to be difficult. He – he would do anything to protect me,” and I understand now. I understand how this has happened. Why Ada has been so much colder in recent years. He – he must be dying inside. But he is so strong. He – he would know, if anything happened to him, it would all become my problem. He would do anything to protect me, even this. Even live with this. “That’s why he told me not to sleep with you. To tell you job done. To get you out of there.”

He frowns, and I see he doesn’t understand. I look down at my hands again,  
“Because he could see I liked you too much. That I was on the verge of giving them another hostage. That – that they would threaten you. To control me.” 

It occurs to me, that this is the nearest I have ever – will ever, I suppose dully – come to a declaration of love. It is not how I dreamed it would be, in the lonely watches of the night. There is no music, no romance, no sex, no passion, no kiss. No return.

Just me, sitting here, on the floor, smelling of vomit I suppose, looking bloody awful I am sure, and him. Sitting on the edge of the bath, looking at me with, I don’t know, pity, disgust, something that is not what I dreamed anyway.

And, unseen, controlling, as they always are, never forgotten, fucking up this moment, as they have fucked up my whole life, them.

“Who?” he asks, “Tell me. Tell me, and maybe, maybe we can do something.”

“Turn evidence you mean?” I say, and laugh, “is that what this is all about? You want to turn me? I was right, in a way, it is a honey trap. You fucked me, so now you think I will tell you what you can’t prove any other way?”

He sighs, and from the corner of my eye, I see him reach to scratch at his face, rubbing the ginger stubble around his beard. And – oh Eru, what is wrong with me – after all this, all the shouting – I still want him. More than anything, I just want to be held again, to rub my face against that roughness. 

And I suppose it will never happen. Only in my memory.

And I know I don’t deserve it. Not after what I have done. 

I did not know. 

But I should have.

“No. I – I said. I was – off the clock. I didn’t expect to run into you last night. Forgot who owns the damn club. I didn’t expect you to start buying me drinks, chatting me up. Not seriously. That – just happened. It’s been there, waiting to happen since the day I walked in to your office, hasn’t it? Last night – was just the first time it could.” He sighs again, “I’m sorry, alright? I had too much to drink. You – fuck, you must know you’re pretty hard to resist once you get going.” And that must be the most grudging, wonderful compliment anyone has ever paid me. He goes on, “Started off, I was supposed to just – look around. See what I could find out about how the money goes, anything else. There’s – always – the hope that you’ll find someone, someone who you can persuade to tell you more, maybe even turn. But – doesn’t happen often. Mostly, it’s just another way of collecting evidence. It’s not like the books, the TV, not really. I – that phone call – that was my – boss – bollocking me. Just happens he’s my cousin. I shouldn’t have come here. Not to your flat. Could fuck up evidence later on. Shouldn’t have slept with you. Not – very professional.”

I can’t resist a laugh,  
“No. Not for either of us. Far as I knew, I was your employer. Stupid pair of fuckers we are.”

“Literally,” he grins back, “no, but – it was good. I liked it too. And that’s been it, all along. I don’t – didn’t – see how you could be so involved in this. I suppose – if it was just the drink, the drugs, maybe your excuse would work. But – the weapons? No. Not for me.” he sighs, and I know he is disappointed in me, and it hurts. “I believe you didn’t know about the other though. You couldn’t have faked that. But – what is all this about someone else? Far as we knew, your dad – he’s the big boss.”

The relief. He believes me. He likes me, a bit. He – he did want me. 

For a moment, I wonder about what I am going to do, but – I don’t see how I can not. If there is even a chance that this could be the eagles sweeping in to save me, I am taking it. I don’t honestly feel I have a lot to lose.

“Here. Yes. Except – you know Hal – in HR. Not really he isn’t. Bastard. He’s theirs. Keeps an eye on us all. They – they are not nice people. You know better than me, sounds like. But – where do you think we get the stuff? Miruvor, athelas, it all comes from his place – the Lord – his valley he calls it. She – the Lady – she’s behind the weapons. They – he married her daughter. Long while ago. But – she asked questions. They didn’t like it. Sent her West – they said.”

I stop for a moment, make myself breathe, it always scares me this. That they could do that. Her mother, her husband. The ones you think you can trust. To do that.

And her father. Left. To live with his failure. 

No wonder he drinks. Even more than Ada.

I remember him, once, long ago. He is kin to Ada, somewhere, somehow, I can never remember the details, but I remember him visiting once. Quiet. Sad, even then. I suppose he must have lived scared for a long while.

I wonder why he goes on, now his daughter is dead. Doesn’t that free him enough to put a stop to it all? What else can they do to him?

“What do you think happened?” he asks quietly, and suddenly I can imagine this conversation taking place in a – what do they call it – police interview room – I can imagine the tapes turning – or whatever they use these days. I wonder what will happen to me. Will I go to prison? They might as well shoot me if so. No way the arm of the Noldor won’t stretch there. Actually, I can’t think of anywhere it might be safe after this. I don’t care anymore. I just want him to look at me with a bit less disgust. I – I want to set Ada free from this too. And I know there is only one way. 

“I don’t know the details. I don’t want to. But – she wasn’t sick. She didn’t need to sail. She’s dead. I – I don’t know how. But – if you hint at doing something they don’t want – they ask if you want to sail. Only, in that way.”

He nods. 

“No body, though?”

“No. But – there’s ground enough, her wood, his valley. I don’t know. She – she had children. The boys – I – they would have gone along with it. I’ve met them. They scare me. The girl – she was in the wood a lot in those days. So I suppose the valley would be most likely. No use to you though, unless you have international help.”

He smiles, grimly,  
“You’d be surprised, these days.” Silence again. Then, “But, you still haven’t said the names. I need the names.”

I shrug,  
“What’s the point? You won’t be able to do anything. I – you think I have proof, sitting around my flat?”

He looks at me. Waiting.

I sigh. 

“Elrond. Galadriel. You – I can get you the contacts we have for them, but – I don’t know what good it will do you.”

He nods,  
“I’d need that. Get me that, Monday. Show me what else you have in the office. Anything. Ports, shipments, dealers, routes, the more you can give me the better chance I have of being able to get people together to jump on this.” He is silent again, looking down. I follow his gaze. Notice he still has bare feet. Nice feet. Fuck, how can I be thinking like that? On the other hand, why not? I’ll likely not see Tuesday. Might as well try for some fun before then. I wonder how to say, alright, I’ll do whatever you ask, on Monday, just – please – spend the time before that fucking me senseless. Holding me.

I don’t care if it’s as much a lie as all the rest of the person I thought I knew.

You only have to make me believe it until Monday.

I don’t suppose it will matter much after that.

His thoughts have run differently,  
“You realise – I can’t offer you protection. Not really. Not enough. I can’t – I can’t even promise you won’t be prosecuted for your part. I can promise you would be protected, promise we will keep an eye on you – before we move, I mean. But I – I don’t suppose prison would be much fun for you, even though we’d see you were safe. I’m sorry. But – I do need you to do it. And I will try. If you help me.”

I almost smile.

“So, what you’re saying is, if I help you, I probably end up dead. If I don’t, I may not. But I’ll be locked up.”

“No.” He stops, looks at me, “well, yes. But – you’d be helping a lot of other people.” He stops again, “saving some even.”

I nod.

Maybe I can learn to live with what I have done, if I do this. Maybe I can free Ada. 

Maybe.

“And you.” I say, quietly.

“And me.”

“High chance of death, small chance of success, what am I waiting for?” I pause, “sounds great.” 

He snorts,   
“Tosser.”

Tentatively, afraid of what he may do, or not do, I lean my head against his knee.

“No, I meant it. I – I’d like to be on your side. For whatever time there is.” Again, I wonder about asking him to stay. But – it might sound like a condition. He might say no. I don’t think I could bear that. Just – just stay here a moment, I think. Put your hand back on my hair. Let me have a few more minutes, of something – something I never truly dared hope for. Of – this – closeness – with someone who knows the truth of my life.

He reaches down, strokes my ear, and it feels – good.

“I’ll have to make some calls. But – later. Tomorrow.” He hesitates, “unless – you want me to go? But – it seems a shame to waste breakfast.”

I smile.

“Breakfast?” I say, “I think there’s a fair few condoms left.” Although it occurs to me that, perhaps, perhaps I don’t need to worry about the future anymore, and – I wonder how that would feel. To have him, let him fuck me, with nothing between us. It has been – I don’t know, three decades – too long – since I had anyone that way. But – no. I said. I do not wish to harm him, and – I cannot say that would be safe. I smile instead, deciding I will push my luck, “And – there’s a lot of restaurants that deliver here. Later. If you want.”

And when he grins back, I don’t care that Tuesday may never come. 

 

 

His phone starts beeping frantically, just at the wrong moment.

“Fuck,” he says, and I think yes, that’s what you’re supposed to be doing, don’t stop now, please, but – no. He looks at it. “Oh fuck. I really have to go. Like – now. I – I’m sorry. But – this thing – it’s a big deal to my father. First time he’s had us all – all the family – over since mother died. I said I’d be there.”

Part of me understands. How can I not? But – and I hate myself for it – part of me wonders if he’s telling the truth. It’s just – so convenient. And – that his mother is dead – that he thinks his father needs him – it’s a bit close to home. Doesn’t mean it can’t be true, but – was this all another lie to get me on side?

And – part of me just wants to cling to him and cry out – I’m risking my life to help you, or I will be on Monday – stay with me now. Please. I want you so. I don’t care if you’re lying, just don’t stop.

But that isn’t who I am. Not who I want him to see, anyway.

I shrug, best I can in this position,  
“I understand.” And I watch as he pulls himself together, starts finding his clothes – which seem to be scattered further than I would have thought.

“Probably best I don’t come back, best to see you Monday?” he says, not meeting my eyes.

I nod.  
“I’ll have all the details I can find for you,” I say, and then, “I’ll find a way to go through it all with you. Come in normal, I’ll send for you.” 

He looks at me,  
“I’m sorry,” he says again, but I don’t believe him. 

 

 

After he’s gone, the flat feels cold. I don’t want to go out, don’t want to eat, don’t want anything much.

I phone Ada.

He has someone there. I don’t ask who. I don’t want to know.

Naneth is dead, but that’s no reason he should be alone all the time.

“I’m going riding tomorrow,” I say, “shall I pick you up? 5? Drive down, make a day of it?”

And I thank Eru for a good father when he understands at once, and agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOCA - Serious and Organised Crime Agency. Basically, the cops who deal with really big stuff like this. It's possible the correct acronym is different again these days - either tell me & i'll change it, or just - accept this version of modern life is not quite the same (after all, its got elves & dwarves & hobbits in).


	3. Remembering

In the cold emptiness of my life, I sit and I think. I shiver at the thought of the conversation I need to have with Ada, but more than that I am chilled by the thought of what may happen beyond Monday, and I warm myself with the memories of these last weeks. 

Nice thing about being an elf, I can hide in the memories, not feel the cold, not hear the silence around me.

These memories. This short while. In all my long life, these have been the best weeks. For the first time, I have – have begun to understand what the poets mean. And if I am to lose it all – him, dreams, everything I have, Ada, my life perhaps – then a part of me would say it is well lost for these weeks.

A larger part disagrees. I – I do not want to lose things I have barely discovered. I do not want to die without – without his love.

And I wonder if there is anything – anything – that could earn it for me now.

I will not let myself remember that he is a liar. As am I.

 

 

I remember the day he arrived. The way he walked in to the office, even then, in my eyes, so beautiful, so male he took my breath away.

I remember the letter from the auditors, explaining this was a new senior, explaining that they had acted for us so long, it was felt a new face might bring impartiality. I remember being amazed they would send a dwarf to us, and expect impartiality. 

I remember worrying something had been said about my – habit. 

Thing about auditors is – they don’t often get propositioned. Even if they don’t take you up on it, they tend to be – flattered. And – distracted.

And that suits me fine.

Realising – no. If it were that – they would simply have sent a woman. I don’t think anyone would doubt that would solve the problem.

But – the shock. When this dwarf walked in. 

Not that we don’t employ dwarves, or any racist bullshit like that. Ada is happy to employ anyone who is efficient. As he says, he doesn’t have to like them, just pay them.

Lovely atmosphere, my workplace.

Anyway. I remember looking at him, this Nairn, and I wonder for a moment if that is his real name, or if that was a lie as well, I remember looking and thinking – shit. Just – shit. He is fucking gorgeous.

And then – wondering how I could think that. What part of me was it that reacted that way? He – he is not my usual type. At least, he is strong – oh, clearly he is strong. And – different to me. The beard. Elves can’t grow beards. Most elves hate them. I – I have always had a bit of a thing for beards. Or stubble. Or – that wonderful in-between. Or – or when men – it had always been men before – have a beard, but shave round it, only – only not too well. 

Anyway. I don’t normally go for ginger. Not sure why. Just – usually I like dark. Blonde is too – too much like a mirror. Usually – usually I like men to be – not actually taller than me, that’s a bit much of an ask, but tall. Tall enough I can imagine they could lift me. But of course – one look at his biceps – he could lift me. Easy. 

But – I think it was the smile. That – smile that makes the sun come out. I don’t know. Something about the way he looked. No – no sarcasm in him. What you see is what there is. If he hates you, he’ll say. He won’t be all cold and polite and then bitch about you.

Liar.

But I fell.

Feeling my ears flush.

I hate that.

It’s so unfair. Only elves have this – this bloody signal – the minute we see someone we like. Hence the long hair. 

At least now being queer isn’t illegal. That was a bloody awful few decades, when it went from unknown, sort of ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’, to, well, felt like hunted.

Celibacy not being my strong point.

And yes, I know, elves are supposed to be better than that.

Not me.

So – despite the ears – looking at him, thinking – wow. Knowing there was nothing to be done about it. Unbreakable rule. Don’t shag dwarves. Even Ada, doting father that he is, has his limits.

Oops.

Planning to go out on the pull that night, even though it was a Monday. Thinking, maybe there is someone close enough out there. Ginger even. Get it out my system, sort of idea.

And then – having to do all the – welcome to the company, here is your desk, here are the books, here is a terminal you can use, read only please, this is your login, these are the usual printouts, here is the IT department, if you need anything come and ask, and so on. Trying to concentrate on all the bloody paperwork, the polite shit. All the time, just thinking – wow. Wanting to say, please. Want. Oh sweet Eru, want. Explaining what he needed to know. 

Asking why he was alone.

“Don’t you normally travel in packs? – auditors – there’s usually a whole bundle of you.” flushing worse when I heard my foolish words.

Him smiling, disarming me,  
“We prefer to say ‘teams’. Not packs. But yes, usually. Just – it was felt one person might well be more efficient here. And that the lower fees to reflect that might be appreciated.”

Jumping on that immediately,  
“I don’t know why you would think that. No problems with cashflow, last invoice was paid within the usual time.” Knowing the last thing Ada ever wants is queries about profitability. We never want too much attention on any aspect, least of all the figures.

Another grin,  
“Oh, no question there. Just – adding value. Same way I’ve been asked to look at your whole system this time, see if there’s any obvious slack.”

And the grin – I couldn’t argue. 

Couldn’t make myself see the questions all over that statement. Who asked? Slack? It’s my system, if there’s slack in it, it’s down to me.

But – I didn’t ask.

I wonder now, if he had any idea what he was doing. Or was he just winging it?

Certainly got past me.

Mind you, I think I was a bit desperate not to be staring at him. Not to be seen to be obsessed.

 

 

Didn’t see or hear much of him the first few days. Thank Eru, I remember thinking. Last thing I need is some bloody dwarf distracting me. Despite being the boss’s son, I do actually work quite hard. And I’m good at it.

Bloody should be by now. Thing about elvish intelligence, it’s pretty good to start with, but then – we have so much longer to practice. Everything. 

So much longer to learn the tricks, the ways round the rules, the ways to hide things.

So much longer to learn to lie.

 

 

I’m a good liar.

Had a lot of practice.

Lie to myself well too.

 

 

Ironic really. Ada asking me how it was going, having a dwarf there.

Saying it was good really, because we had been sailing a bit close to the wind on that one – the diversity thing and also the lack of impartiality, the relationship with the auditors – some of the auditors – getting a bit close. Wondering just what he’d heard over the years. That if I could cope, he’d appreciate it, and we’d have ticked boxes.

Having to think very – concentratedly – about a sensible answer. Ada knowing me a bit too well, he is good at spotting the signs.

In retrospect, perhaps I didn’t do that bit very well.

Might have been easier if I wasn’t in the habit of shagging auditors – don’t laugh – there’s nearly always one of the team who’s easy on the eye. And – they don’t count as staff. Besides, a little bit of – distraction – never hurt. There are, after all, quite a lot of questions I don’t want asked.

Being FD of your father’s company isn’t always that much fun, but – he can’t sack me. So – look for the thrills where you can, I say.

 

 

Anyway. 

I lie well.

To myself.

 

 

So when he started coming to me with questions, things he wanted ‘just to ask about, because it seems to me that there’s a loophole here’ or ‘a break in the system’, or ‘we need to check this’ – it was easy enough to pretend I was annoyed. 

That he was a nuisance.

That I didn’t feel my ears flush every time he looked at me.

That my breathing stayed steady.

That I wasn’t aware – painfully, urgently aware – of where he stood, how close, of his breath against my neck, of his hand next to mine as I moved the mouse, as I printed out the reports he couldn’t access.

That since the first day my clothes had not changed. 

That I always wear skinny jeans to work, always wear boots, always wear tops that show a bit more than they should.

That I always flick my hair this much.

That when I led him through the building, I didn’t sway a little more than I need.

That I could hold his eyes with mine, not let my gaze drift downwards.

That my mouth felt dry because – because it was hot in here.

That I was unchanged.

Easy enough to be the sarcastic, bitter, no – bitchy, FD.

And yet – he kept coming back.

 

 

And – I suppose – I should have seen – every question he asked – it opened another door. 

 

 

Yes, there’s a loophole. We don’t check cash payments. 

Official answer – because they are sodding convenience stores. People come out at silly o’clock, in their pyjamas, in a hurry. Because they are nightclubs. How could we possibly check every amount that goes through?

Actually – because, of course, half those payments, at least – don’t exist. They go through here, from my office, to wash the money. 

 

 

And – the stock checks that don’t happen – because a fair amount is under the counter stuff. The athelas, the miruvor. Surprising how much goes through the shops, the clubs, I always think. You’d have thought someone would have picked it up by now. But – they don’t.

I always think the slogan – “we never sleep” – would kind of hint there’s elves involved somewhere. And, since even elves do – sort of – sleep, sometimes, elves on some kind of pharmaceutical help. But – no-one ever seems to check.

I suppose they have now.

Perhaps they were just waiting to link it all together.

 

 

The payments to suppliers – that don’t seem quite in line with industry averages – shouldn’t we be renegotiating? Oh, for fuck’s sake, I remember thinking, stop asking bloody stupid questions. No, we shouldn’t. Because half those supply companies are fronts, and a fair few of the others, the amounts drawn are not the amounts they receive.

Unnecessary nuisance, it’s always seemed to me. Why the fuck the Lords and Ladies can’t take cash, I don’t know. Or net it off against what we get in. 

But no. We didn’t, apparently, do it like that in the Third Age, we’re not going to now.

Fucking Noldor.

 

 

 

The transfers from one company to another. Why? What is the purpose? Is there a reason? Are you getting some kind of deal from the banks? Why move this money?

To hide how much, and where from, and where it goes, of course. Keep it moving, round and round it goes, and who can see where it comes from, follow where it ends?

Which wasn’t the answer I gave him. I had some – I don’t know – bollocks – prepared. To help with cashflow, to take advantage of tiered interest rates, to prevent any of my staff getting ideas about large balances that don’t seem needed.

 

 

Why are you investing in FTSE shares? Why spend company money on assets which don’t always sell for as much as you paid? Why trade so fast, so continuously? Do your shareholders approve this?

To hide money, to wash money, and yes, of course they fucking do. Because it’s only Ada and I, whatever it says on the books. More companies that are just names, it’s all fake.

Fucks sake, dwarf, isn’t it obvious?

Again, I had some kind of bollocks ready. Speculating, making money work, not just sit in the bank – who likes bankers? Easy stuff to come out with.

Even when my throat was dry, my heart racing, even when all I could think of was touching his hair, having him touch me, even when – when he stood beside me, and the scent of him was enough to leave me hard and aching.

 

 

And on, and on he went. Bloody questions.

All of them so helpful. 

All of them so innocent.

And all the time – all I could think about – was – I want. Oh I want.

But not just that – he would – sometimes – talk about – news items, sport, the usual chit chat – but – somehow – he made me smile. Something about the way he talked – I felt – as though he were talking to me. Not just – talking, the way people do – making noises that mean only – I am sentient, you are sentient too, we are not going to fight. It felt – as though – I don’t know – there was a connection.

I would see headlines – headlines I would normally scroll past, uninterested – and read the story – so I could tell him – or listen and understand what he meant.

I found myself listening to football scores. As though I cared.

And when I actually said something – one Monday – about – the match that weekend – and it was obvious I had watched it – I, watch football – he smiled – and – something inside me glowed.

I let myself believe in it.

Just a little.

 

 

But all the time there were more questions.

The back-ups. And, I think now, how did I not query that he spotted that? Well, I suppose I know. I didn’t want to think about him.

Not more than I could help.

Not in any way other than – the way I thought of him so often, so urgently.

So when he – so innocently – said – ‘oh Las, there’s something a bit worrying. It’s not a regular error, so I don’t think it’s the software, but when the system backs up overnight – the figures change’ – I just gave the usual excuse, the usual reassurance. 

Obviously I was hardly going to say, yes, that’s because I spend bloody hours changing them. Keeping the money in right, explaining away the costs, even putting through payments to staff – staff you won’t ever meet. Staff I don’t want to ever meet.

 

 

I didn’t add it up.

Not very good for an accountant.

So I missed it. Didn’t see the signs.

Idiot.

Too busy lusting after him, too busy trying to conceal that, to see what was in front of me.

Sounds like I didn’t even do that very well, if he knew I wanted him from the day he walked in.

 

 

I knew he stayed late a few times. 

I knew he was poking round the filing system, the network.

Of course I knew. How not? My system, my network. My offices, my staff.

Of course I knew he was there.

I even – I got in the habit of taking him tea and a kit-kat, around six. When most people had gone home. If I hadn’t seen him leave, if his bike was still in the carpark.

I knew he liked tea in the afternoon, biscuits all the time. I don’t know why I did it the first time, but – he smiled. So – so whenever I saw the bike there, knew he was working late – I did it again.

And he smiled. Broke the kit-kat in two, gave me half. 

And I stood there, coffee in hand, smiling helplessly back at him. I don’t eat biscuits. Not really. But – chocolate. Couldn’t resist. Dunking the kit-kat in the coffee, sucking off the foam, the chocolate. 

Seeing his face.

Oh.

Making sure to do that again, slowly. Eyes meeting. Knowing he enjoyed the show.

Like a fool – a bloody teenager – I felt – warmed. Cared for.

Fucks sake, Las, cared for, because some – dwarf – gave you half the fucking kit-kat you brought him. A kit-kat from the canteen, you didn’t pay for. A kit-kat. 

Pathetic.

I didn’t even hold out for – I don’t know – expensive fucking chocolates.

I didn’t even hold out for a kit-kat he paid for.

I – I just didn’t see it. Didn’t question why, if he liked what he could see – why would he not try it on? I don’t exactly play hard to get. Thought he was – I don’t know – wanting promotion. Wanting to be a better auditor.

He’s a dwarf. They work hard.

That’s all I know about them.

Well, that and the obvious.

At least, all I know. Not all I’ve heard. But – no. I – I’ve never – in all these years – and I don’t really know why not – never fucked a dwarf. Because Ada wouldn’t like it, I suppose.

Until now.

And – well. Let’s just say, rumours aren’t always wrong.

Hmm.

 

 

But – all these weeks. Watching. Watching him. And – now – I realise – I didn’t see the important things.

I saw – what did I see?

I saw the arm muscles, when he carried boxes of records.

I saw that tantalising inch between belt and shirt when he stretched up to reach a high shelf – and I had to stop myself from moving everything he could possibly need up there.

I saw the way he looked when he bent over.

I saw – I saw the hitch of his jeans round his crotch.

I saw the smile in his eyes when he caught me staring.

 

 

I didn’t see the lie behind it.

 

I didn’t see who he was.

Just who I wanted him to be.

 

 

Just the outward – obvious – too obvious – things.

The jeans, the leather jacket, the – oh sweet Eru – the motorbike. A Kawasaki Ninja. Not sure which one, I don’t really go for bikes. I don’t. 

At least, I never did before.

I don’t now. Only his. 

I flush, even now, at the thought. I – I am not known for subtlety. I couldn’t help but look, watch, maybe not every day, but more than I should, walking to the window when I heard him shouting a farewell. Watching him straddle that bike and ride away.

And I know the thoughts, the fantasies that played through my mind.

I wonder now how many lessons he needed to be able to ride that. Or whether that was one of the reasons he was picked for this job.

How long was I set up for this?

 

 

 

But – how could I have guessed?

He seemed – normal. He seemed – nice.

I – I would never have done anything.

Ada would kill me.

I shiver. 

No. Ada would never kill me. He would be very annoyed.

There are enough others who might kill me, I will not, even in rhetoric, add Ada to that list.

 

 

What did I hope for, then?

I don’t know.

Office romance – doesn’t happen when you are the son of the boss.

Even in a normal company.

Certainly not when you have been schooled for years – decades – centuries – that you cannot trust any but family.

I don’t know what I hoped for.

I just – just wanted to see him every day. Pathetic as that sounds, I think that is all I wanted. To see him. 

To hear his voice.

To – sometimes – share a coffee break. Hand him a drink, have our fingers brush.

Talk.

Let myself gather more – fuel – for my fantasies.

Because, oh, I had fantasies. Fantasies which are, perhaps, best left undescribed. Longings, dreams, that – that I can barely admit even to myself.

Not just – sex. That, of course that, and – bloody hell – but the imaginings didn’t come up to the reality. Although I did think up a lot of different settings. 

Anyway. Not just sex. Not just all those different positions, different games, different ways to make him come, to taste him, to feel him, to be held down and used.

Not just that.

I – I wanted more than that. Things I can hardly put a name to. Things that if another spoke of I would laugh. Not poetry, I was not that ridiculous, but – hand holding. Maybe – walking together, running together, riding even. My horse, his bike – I didn’t care. 

Dancing.

Not just – pick-up dancing, not just showing off, preening, asking for it, but – the sort of dancing people do as a couple. Established couple. Holding.

Holding. I don’t know. Dates. Meals out, cinemas, gigs, and – and it never bothered me that I would be paying. I don’t care.

I just – let myself sometimes – imagine what it would be to be a couple.

Cuddling.

Embarrassing isn’t it?

Las is not supposed to think like that. 

Never have, never will.

I like to get laid, and then move on.

But – with him – I wanted more.

And in reality – I had hopes of – none of that. But I did think there were things – we might have done.

Things that were – not really close to any of that – but closer than I have ever been. And I let myself imagine that we might.

So when we did drive out to one of the shops – just once or twice – had – maybe – half an hour in the car, half an hour with him beside me, sharing the air we breathed, it was sweet.

Chat. About nothing. Laughter.

I knew that was all I could have.

But it was sweet.

 

 

 

And now I know it was all a lie – what difference does that make?

None, I find.

I knew I was lying.

Perhaps – if he lied too – perhaps that is a kind of truth.

 

 

 

Don’t fool yourself, Legolas.

Only elves think that way.

To a dwarf – his word is his bond. If he lies – it means there is no truth in what he says or how he says it.

And he would think the same of you.

 

 

Ada came to me Friday – yesterday – only yesterday – he walked into my office as I stood, watching from the window.

Longing.

“Too much, ion-nin,” he had shut the door before he spoke, I knew it was something serious even before I turned to see his face. “You like him too much. Do not sleep with him. Stop spending time with him. Stop thinking of him.”

And as I opened my mouth to protest, he held up his hand,  
“Do as I say. You offer them another hostage. You like him. Would you see him hurt?”

I dropped my eyes, I shook my head, acknowledging his words.

“I – I would not see you chase a dwarf – but that is not why. You can offer him nothing. You know this. Better to send him away now, than wait and see him broken, or find yourself brought to your knees and begging, doing the unthinkable to buy him a few more breaths.”

He waited until I whispered my agreement, and left, running his hand over my ear gently, a stolen caress, on the way past me.

And I understood, he was right, as he is always right. I had nothing to offer this dwarf, this hard worker, this clever mind. No prospects within the company, no way to take him on – how can there be, when we are elves? We want only our own. No fun outside it – how could there be, what do we have in common, what could we do for enjoyment? 

Well, I had dreamed – I had thought – he runs. I had heard him speak of it. I – I don’t know what foolish longings I had. Just – I run. I – it is long since I had someone to run with.

Stupid.

However good he is, and I am sure he is good, fit and – long-lasting – as he is, an elf and a dwarf, running together? No.

It would never happen.

Beyond – I had never heard him speak of a girl, or a boy – I do not know what I thought. That – that he was too dwarven – that they – do they not – believe in waiting for true love. And even in my dreams – I did not dare to call this love.

Love is not built on lies.

But still, there was a part of me that wondered. Was the fire I felt – only in my heart, my body?

I knew – there were times when our eyes had met, and I wondered. There were times when our hands brushed against each other, and the electric shock of contact – was I truly the only one to feel it?

Ada was right. It mattered not. 

Indeed, if there could be more, all the better reason to back away from him and never see him again. All I could offer was the cold gilded walls of this cage.

The watchful eyes of the Lords and Ladies, and their sticky, enveloping webs.

 

 

So – I was ready for – something – to let off some tension – last night.

Besides, it was Friday. No need to be clear-headed in the morning.

I went out.

Looking for – as they say – not mr right, just mr right-now. 

Usual club, usual drink, usual music.

Usual routine.

But – something happened that had never happened before. I saw him. I saw him.

And – I knew I shouldn’t, but – I couldn’t not. 

He was with – I don’t know – friends of some sort. To be honest, I didn’t look. Only enough to see he wasn’t – _with_ – any of them exactly.

And – advantage of being an elf – even through the music – I could hear what he was saying.

“The elf – oh shit – yeah, he’s hot. Nothing to be done about it, but – wouldn’t I just like to bend him over his desk and shag him bandy.”

Oh. So it isn’t just in my mind.

He wants me too, I think.

And then I – well – I am not subtle. Why should I be? What would be the point? It’s not as though I had time to waste. 

He is a dwarf. They don’t last long. No mortal does.

Besides, I – I wanted him. And – I had been wanting him for so long. And now, to find that he wanted me – but – I felt I only had this one chance. There wasn’t time to be subtle.

So, a few drinks, a lot of flirting later, it seemed like a good idea to say,  
“I don’t have a desk at home. But – the rest of your plan sounded good.” And watch him colour, as he realised I had heard, and meet his eye, and wait for him to nod. I don’t know what his friends thought. I don’t know how honest he is with them. 

I don’t care much.

Because then – oh then – then we left the club. Found a taxi. Came back here.

And then – oh then – then I thought – I thought nothing could be better. I don’t want to sit here reliving it, making it into something romantic, something it wasn’t. I don’t need to. It was – fucking amazing – amazing fucking – it didn’t need to be anything else. I’m no story book elf, no virgin, I’ve been around a bit, fuck, whatever the legends say, when you have centuries it’s going to happen. A lot. But – I don’t know. It – felt – different. 

Maybe it’s just that it’s a long while since I could remember the name of the guy I was in bed with.

Or have him remember mine.

Maybe – maybe there was more to it than that.

I don’t know. Part of me wanted – hoped – imagined – there could be. Not that I was going to let it. I know – knew – Ada was right. But – just the thought that there could be. 

It sounds so shallow. Like it didn’t matter if I was going to hurt him, because I was getting what I wanted. But it wasn’t like that. 

Evidently.

How could I hurt him?

He never even told me his real name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did actually find a picture of the motorbike - but I can't (yet) work out how to add it. if anyone knows - I'd be grateful for advice (in very, very simple language). otherwise - if you want to see it, go & look!


	4. Telling Ada

Next morning I am up early, as I promised. It’s not far to Ada’s house, and soon he is sat beside me as we drive through the empty streets in the grey pre-dawn light. All the way out of town, he is silent. Not even fiddling with the radio, not on his phone. Waiting. He’s always been good at waiting.

It doesn’t take long. Not long enough, to be honest. This time in the morning, it’s around two hours, speed the Jag reaches, down the M3 to the Forest. Ada doesn’t own all of it, of course, just – most. 

I suppose I am lucky, really. Not many people have a private woodland covering half of Hampshire. And horses, kept ready.

Above all, I am lucky to have a father who loves me, who wants to come here, share this day with me.

And I am going to hurt him so.

When I park, he looks at me,   
“Not here,” he says, “ride some of it off first.” And I nod.

We go to the yard, walk past the boxes, find Arod and Aras. Nice thing about being elves, we don’t need to arse about with bloody bits of leather. Open boxes, and the horses follow us out. We ride.

Fast.

Fuck I feel better for that.

We take the usual trail, this early on a Sunday it is quiet, no need to worry about others. Not that we generally do – our wood. Only a few others have permits. Just those Ada wishes to reward, usually. As ever, we are competing, racing, seeing who can fly round the corners faster, who can take the tighter turns, the higher jumps. 

As ever, he has the stronger nerve, the will to do it better.

As ever, he, almost imperceptibly, holds back so we appear well-matched.

I love you, Ada, I think.

When we are miles out, deep in the woods, he slows, and allows the horses to amble, getting their breath. He doesn’t look at me, but I know he’s waiting. He knows I have something to say. I swallow, afraid, because this is where it really starts.

I look down at my hands, knotted in Arod’s mane.

“I love you Ada,” I say, surprising myself, and him. It’s a long while since I said it aloud. But I do. Even now. Especially now.

He sighs,  
“And I you, ion-nin,” then he looks at me, I can feel the weight of his eyes resting on me, “you know, somehow you have found out. I never wanted you to know. I am sorry.”

Not words he says often. I shrug,  
“I know. I can see how it happened. Its – it’s not that – not really – not just.”

He looks away, and I feel him become cold,  
“What then? Police? Trouble? Did you – I believe the term is – buy a wrap – from the wrong person? Or, what is the other term – proposition someone in the wrong place?” he waits, then, “Oh, for the love of Eru, tell me you have not been cottaging? I thought you were past that, now it is legal, now you can go to a nightclub like anyone else. I even run one of the damn clubs for your benefit, and I never ask what happens in the backrooms, I have the staff terrified enough that the cctv tape is wiped without watching.”

I cringe inside at how much he knows of the parts of my life I would prefer he did not.

“No. I – “ I stop.

“Oh Legolas, you fool. What have you done?” his patience is wearing thin.

“I – nothing – well – I – oh Ada – I am sorry.” I hesitate, I do not look at him, I know the brow is raised, if we were not on horseback the foot would tap, “I slept with the dwarf – Nairn. The one you told me not to.”

“And?” he knows that is not all, “what has that to do with our newest product?”

“He told me,” I say, “he – Ada – he is undercover. He is – I don’t know what he said – police. He is – after – them. I – I said – I would – I would – I will – give him all the evidence I can,” I come out with it in a rush and before he can respond, “on Monday. I – I thought – you – fly out – to – I don’t know – somewhere – Monday night – tonight – go. Please. I don’t want to involve you.”

He is silent. Thinking. 

I am about to start talking again, incoherently I expect, when,  
“And why would I do this? You are my son. Why would I not send you? Take the risk myself?”

I breathe, knowing the question means he is considering, knowing a logical reason will – may – work.

“Because, one, you never have before, never have I travelled at such short notice without you. You have. To change the pattern – it would alert someone. You know it would. Two, you are too deep in, no-one would believe you didn’t know. They might, me. I – I have a reputation for not being – one to see what is not obvious. Three, three, he can’t – won’t – offer you protection. Four, he might not trust you.” Five, I think, because I am an adult, I feel guilt, this is for me to do. I want to save you, as you have protected me so long. And six – I love him. If I can’t be with him, there is nothing I want to live for. If I can help him, make him trust me, make him look at me again, it is worth anything to me.

I don’t say that. I don’t think it would help.

Not overly fond of dwarves, my Ada.

Not overly fond of anyone much.

Except me. 

And I do this to him.

Oh my Ada.

He is silent again, thinking.

He looks at me,  
“That all makes sense. And you – you would – what – join me in time?”

I bite my lip. I have never been good at lying to him. I suspect that is one reason he is so protective of me.

“Yes. I hope. Maybe. If I can.” But I can’t meet his eyes.

“And if I say no?”

I swallow, not wanting to say this. But I will. This has gone far enough. I will do this thing, whatever he threatens. 

I cannot live with myself any other way.

I was cold last night. I feared – I feared to be alone. I feared that if I thought too long on what I have done – I would begin again to fade.

“Then – then I do it anyway. And you go down. I – I can’t not. Not now I know. I’m sorry Ada.”

He is silent again. Then,  
“You know, I did it because of you. What they threatened. Shall I tell you?” he pauses, and I shake my head, it doesn’t matter. I believe him. I don’t think him evil. Just – focused. “No. Very well. Just – be aware. That Hal – he does not like you. He would see you suffer.” He sighs, and I continue not to meet his eyes. “You are determined on this? This is your choice? Legolas, you are very like your mother. You love this dwarf, or you think you do. And so all the sense in you is fled.”

He turns his horse, and I follow, not trying to race this time, just enjoying the peace. 

Hours later, I think, he stops, and waits for me.

“I have decided. You – are entitled to try to be a hero. I cannot stop you. And so, I shall go. I will not tell you where. Or when. If – this all passes – I will find you. If not – I will find them. And I will kill them, because now – then – there will no longer be any more pain they can inflict on me.” and I remember, he is no gentle elf. Tender as he has always been to me, he is, and for many years has been, one of the most powerful importers of – illegal goods – in this country. That is not a game for those who fear to inflict hurt. 

I wonder, as I have not wondered for many years, what changed that Ada became as much a victim of them as a partner. I wonder, how did they begin to control one who for so long was so powerful.

And I fear what they will do next.

 

 

We speak no more, until we reach his house. We need not. 

As he gets out of the car, he looks at me again. And inclines his head, once. 

Then he walks away. 

And I wonder if I will ever see him again.


	5. Monday

Monday, I am up early again. Advantage of being an elf, I don’t sleep much.

I have plenty of time alone in the office to find the last of the details I promised. And then I think of something, and I smile.

I lock out his network access. I ensure there is a message for him to come straight to me when he gets in.

 

 

He comes. 

As he walks in, I stand, I grab my jacket, I find my keys and I wave them at him,  
“Didn’t you want to see some of the stock? Go out to a warehouse? Do a check from the printout?”

He looks at me as though I am mad.

I am a bit manic, I know. It’s the coke in my system, from last night, last night when I went out, and – and I don’t fully remember what I did. Images, mixed in with the buzz, a soreness, an ache, a pocket full of wrappers, that tells me – I drank, I danced, I scored, I knelt, I – I bent over, I had – I don’t know how many – and – it wasn’t enough.

I didn’t want them.

Not really. Not in the way I now know it is possible to want.

“Come on,” I say, “it’s a nice day. Let’s go out. What did you want to check? The Essex warehouse? Won’t take too long, drive out, have lunch. Be back in time for you to – I don’t bloody know – have your afternoon tea and biscuits.” All auditors like their tea and biscuits, I learnt that a long time ago.

But – a lunch out, they don’t usually turn that down either. Why doesn’t he want to? It – it would be fun. Like a date.

Sort of.

I stand there, looking at him, and I suppose the excitement leaves my face. 

What am I thinking?

He doesn’t want to go anywhere with me.

It isn’t a date. It will never be a date.

And it hits me again, I don’t even know his name.

I drop my eyes, I feel the flush hit my ears, and I bite my lip, rub my nose, wish there was still a tingle left.

“Fucks sake, elf, don’t look so like a sodding puppy that wants a walk,” he says, “yes, I could do with going out there. Need to print off a stock report here though – that’s the one you use for your figures, that’s the one I need to check on the ground. And I seem to be locked out – so I’ll have to watch you do it, I guess?”

And he comes over, and – and he stands behind me as I run the report, print it out. I wish it took longer. Standing, he is slightly taller than I am sitting at my desk. It’s strange, having the height difference gone, strange to look slightly up at him. I like it.

While we wait for the printer – and oh, thank you Ada, thank you for refusing to upgrade to a faster one – he leans forward, and as though he is guiding me to some tab he wants to read, he places his hand over mine on the mouse. He strokes, gently, and – and I find I am hard instantly, ears flushing, wanting to lean back into him, as he whispers in my ear,

“I think you would make a lovely puppy,” and he lets his other hand trace round my neck, under my hair, “a day out sounds a good idea. Too sunny to be in this bloody office. Take me out for lunch. And then – well – I can think of better things to do with the afternoon than tea and biscuits.”

For an instant, I think I am being too hopeful, but then – he leans into me, and I find – I am not the only one hard and aching.

The printer beeps, and I stand, too quickly, and we grab each other for balance. There is a moment when I think we will not be able to let go, then I walk away.

As I collect the report and hand it over, I realise my office door is open. And I wonder if anyone saw, and if they did, would they think anything of it?

It is hardly the first time I have flirted with an auditor.

Or any other visitor.

 

 

The drive – oh the drive out – is all I had hoped – dreamed – and yet – not enough. I begin to understand there will never be enough.

He doesn’t talk about anything much as we wind our way out of London, through the dull east London streets and onto the A12 – just comments on the radio, the Jag – it is a nice car, I like cars – the traffic, the weather – pretty much what anyone would say in the circumstances. But – I like it. It – it is possible to pretend – in my head – that this is how – how couples talk.

I don’t know.

When we cross the M25, when I can put the top down, the music up – I feel like someone in an advert – corny, but true – and I can’t help glancing at him. I raise an eyebrow, and he grins.

“Happy puppy,” he says, and he pats my leg. But – he keeps his hand there, and I – I think this is the happiest I have ever been.

And I know it means nothing to him. And I know it is all a lie. And I know, I know, I am not deserving of any of it.

But still. It is wonderful.

 

 

I do not drive too fast. Deliberately I keep well below the speed limit, tempted as I am to put my foot down, really have fun. 

At least, at first I am sensible. I remember I don’t have the space for more points on my licence, I don’t want to have to explain to Ada why I need to draw down enough to buy another new car, I don’t want to have to pay the excess on my insurance again, and most of all – I don’t want this journey to be over.

But then he says,  
“Fucks sake elf, a car like this and you drive like a hobbit. What is wrong with you?”

And I laugh.

If he wants fast, he shall have fast. This is a Jaguar F-type, project 7, 5.0 litre, V8. It can do over a hundred and eighty miles an hour, it can go 0-60 in just under four seconds. I am an elf. Fast reactions, perfect vision. I tilt my head, and I smile as I watch the speedometer rise.

 

“Better?” I say, and I glance sidelong at him.

He is silent.

Yes. This is special. This is – in my opinion, and frankly, I have owned a lot of cars – the best fucking sports car in the world. Ever. 

Outpaces that fucking bike. Leaves it standing.

And he calls it “a car”. 

_“A car”._

Bloody dwarves.

Valar but I love this. Perhaps there is more of last night’s coke left in me than I like to admit, perhaps it is the music, whatever, something in me does not care anymore. I have lost track now of what speed we are doing, I have lost track of where I am going – I am playing – darting between the other cars, proletarian crap that they are, passing them on either side, wherever there is a gap I am there and through, and I do not care, I do not care.

Suddenly I see the sign for the exit we want come up, and I swing across the carriageway, neatly between cars and trucks, up the sliproad and a perfect approach to the roundabout takes us into a gap, and round – and fuck Elbereth, the way this car corners alone is worth every sodding penny of – what was it – something under ninety k – and then we are into the bizarre network of lanes that crosses this corner of Essex. 

In theory I am slower now, but it does not feel it. The lanes are narrow, winding across the flat landscape – and I notice, as I always notice, just how green, how rural it is. Sort of place you expect to see hobbits trotting about, Essex. Used to surprise me that, but it is. Not many hobbits though. I don’t let myself think about the ones I am responsible for bringing here.

Just enjoy the speed, the skill necessary to make each corner, holding to the edge of the road, feeling his tension beside me, feeling him look at me – and oh I want, I want to reach out, hold him, but I can’t, I can only show my need to care for him in the smoothness of the changes in pace. Every so often we come up behind something slow, and dull, and I pull round, and slip past, and we are on again, fast and oh sweet Aule, creator of cars, how I love this.

It is a different pleasure to riding, as different as the way I feel about him is to the way I feel about Ada. I love Ada, I trust him to care for me beyond all other things – but – I will always be his ernilen. His little prince. The youngest child. Just as I trust my Arod not to go faster than is wise, not to take a turn or a jump he cannot do. But this car – in this car – I am in control, it is my decision how fast I go, it is my skill that keeps me alive, and that protects the one I – I love. It is frightening, it is holding my own fate in my hands, for once, for once it is making my own decisions. I love him, and I will do this, whatever the risk, not simply for the thrill, but – because I choose to. I will trust him to protect me – but I will take the risk, I will act as I choose, I will make my own fate.

And as I think this, the green land slips past, the trees – there are trees here, but they are all disciplined, tidy, hedgerow trees, not woodland – the flat, flat fields, the grassy banks, covered in flowers beside the road. The little churches, the houses, cottages almost, storybook world.

 

 

The industrial estate itself looms like a tunnel’s opening, a network of grey and forbidding caverns in the green land. I have never understood why, when there is so much of this country that is not pretty, they built this here. I suppose it means people can live in the villages and have jobs. But – it is so cold, and grey and ugly in here. The units – warehouses, factories, storage, whatever they all are used for – are so tall, little sunshine finds its way in. So – no plants, no birds. Every time I arrive, my heart sinks a little, and today – today is no exception. There is no gate guard today, and I barely even slow, I know this route so well. Outside the unit there is one space left, and I reverse in.

Perfectly.

I stretch, and get out of the car, remember to grab my jacket – some of the stock has to be kept chilled. He catches up with me as I reach the door.

“Bloody idiot,” he says, “are you still fucking high? It’s not a sodding game, driving like that.”

“Frightened?” I ask, and I smile, knowing he will never admit it, “want me to organise you a train back? Or – shall I see if I can take your mind off it? Tire you out?” and I walk ahead of him, swaying my hips, up the stairs to the office.

 

 

Inside, it is much as it is every time I come out here. The rather tatty lobby, the warehouse I can see through the doors, full of boxes, piled high in – possibly – some kind of order, the depressing filtering of light through the yellowing windows. Up the stairs to the equally tatty offices, I acknowledge those I know as I walk through, noticing the usual faces – one missing – and straight into the stock controller’s den. Finrusc is supposedly in charge out here, although I have my doubts, the warehouse manager himself is a stronger personality – and I can guess what he is doing, given who was missing from out there – but Finrusc is harmless enough, competent most of the time, I have no desire to make his life unpleasant. He calls one of his staff to show us where everything is – and then I find – a difference. 

“No,” he says, “better if I go off. I don’t want you showing me, I have to find it myself. Otherwise I’d never pick up any discrepancies if you’re standing there checking it with me, guiding me.”

I blink, surprised. He is, of course, right, but – I’ve never had anyone brush me off like that. Never known a real auditor so conscientious. 

I shrug, and ostentatiously settle down.

“Biscuit? Coffee?” I demand, and soon enough they appear. And, the joys of smartphones, I need not pretend interest in whatever small-talk Finrusc would come up with. I may not wish to make his life unpleasant, but that kindness would not last if I have to listen to his wittering.

It seems to me, admittedly biased, that this is the longest, most thorough stockcheck I have ever seen done. Fucks sake, I think, I only brought you here as a pretext. I just want lunch out with you, maybe a bit of fun in the sun, and then – then there is somewhere else I think you should see. An envelope of handwritten information I need to give you.

A death-warrant with my name on it that I am engaged in signing.

 

 

I keep my eye on the outer office, but my usual source of gossip does not appear. The dwarf is so long, I even start on phonecalls. Nothing important, just the usual chasing ones, but I am speaking when he comes back. Finishing up, I hear Finrusc say,

“So, Las gave you a ride?” And raising his brows, “that must have been fun. We all know Las loves a passenger with a firm hand.......” 

I turn and grin at Nairn’s discomfort,

“Of course, Finrusc,” I say, “we all know I love to give anyone a ride. On which topic – where’s your cute little assistant got to? I know there was a lot of diving into storecupboards going on last time I was down, but it’s been half the morning – surely Canadion isn’t losing his touch that badly? Or is it that – what was his name – your warehouse manager – is aging?”

Finrusc looks genuinely surprised.

“Did you not know?” he asks, “I thought I emailed you. I did. You sent a leaving card, money. He left. Swept off his feet. They left. Gone to get married – Thiriston wanted to go back north. Yorkshire I think. Not stayed in the group. I think – he wanted a change.”

Ah. Yes. Big, bluff northern type. Could barely understand a word he said. He was the sort to find his principles sooner or later. Yes. Hence the obvious understaffing today. But – Canadion married? Canadion, the original Essex elf. All the jokes, all the lines – that’s him. 

What’s the difference between Canadion and a kit-kat?  
You only get four fingers in a kit-kat.

What’s the difference between Canadion and an ironing board?  
Occasionally you have trouble getting the legs apart on an ironing board.

You get the idea.

Probably the best friend I have.

Had.

He used to come up to London, on occasion. Hit the clubs. Not many who can match me, drink for drink, fix for fix, fuck for fuck. Always a challenge, who could score the most. Always rating each other’s conquests. Shared a few.

“Married?” I ask, and the blankness in me must show, “never would have picked Canadion for that game. Too much the good-time boy. Bloody idiot. He’ll be bored as hell, picking fights in six months.”

Finrusc shrugs,  
“I don’t think so. They’re in love. Sweet.”

I sneer,   
“Sweet now. Like I say, it won’t last. That one couldn’t keep his knickers on for five minutes.” I turn to him, “Canadion was fun. You’d’ve liked him. Thiriston – not so much.” I laugh, best I can, “he didn’t like anyone looking at his elf. I’ve not been able to go drinking with Canadion since they hooked up – permanent now. Fuck. Married.”

He laughs also,  
“One of your friends, married? Yeah, I give it – what – couple of months? If he’s clever enough to cover his tracks that long.”

I don’t let myself wince. So that’s what he thinks of me. That I couldn’t behave myself if I tried. 

I don’t know. I’ve never tried. Never been a reason to.

Chin up, Las, smile. Keep smiling. Don’t let the bastards see they’ve got to you.

“We done here? Yes? Well, thank fuck for that. Let’s go. I need a drink. See you soon, Finrusc.” And I throw my jacket – not needed as it turned out – over my shoulder, and walk away, keys ready.

Inside, inside I am howling. 

Canadion married.

And I – I love this dwarf. 

This dwarf who lies to me with every word he says, every breath he takes. 

This dwarf who despises me, hates me, sees me for what I am.

How did it come to this?

 

 

In silence, we get into the car, and I head off, fuck it, I think, I do indeed need a drink. And I daresay he would like his lunch.

I pull up at the usual pub – there aren’t many round here I would be seen dead in, but this one is not bad. Gastropub type, pretty old building, at least, it pretends to be. I suspect it isn’t, I suspect it is simply a good facsimile. But having lived through those “olden days” I am less enamoured of accuracy. I like central heating, hot water, electricity. Cars. Anyway, it has a nice garden. I lead the way through, into the cool dark of the bar, more fake oak – well, I think it is real, but it’s not as old as it pretends – twisty corners and nooks – and, if it were not such a beautiful day, I think one of those tables with a bench seat would suit me fine. I should rather like to sit there, able to see out of the window, but know that no-one could see in, so small and yellowing the panes, to sit there and cuddle up to him, watching the rain. But it isn’t raining.

And he doesn’t want to cuddle me.

 

 

So, I push the thoughts away, tell myself to enjoy what I can have instead, and yes, I’m here often enough over the years that the landlord recognises me, and when I point to the garden, he nods. 

“Usual for you, and your guest – what’ll I bring you?” he asks, and I am about to say a pint – they do a good bitter here, not my style but I’m guessing he’d go for it – when he says,

“Lemonade,” and I must look as stunned as the barman, because he adds, “I’m driving.”

I content myself with raised eyebrows until we get outside, but then I say,  
“Like fuck you’re driving,” as I automatically chose the best table, the sunniest, find him an ashtray, sit slightly upwind to avoid the worst of it, but making sure neither of us faces into the sun, “that’s my car, my pride and joy. I am a bloody good driver, forget it.”

He laughs,  
“No, you aren’t, you are appallingly dangerous. But – I meant, I am driving later. Remember? The bike? The bike I come to work on, that you like to watch me ride? I’m not about to risk that in London traffic with alcohol in the system.”

More than his poxy job’s worth, I suppose.

“You’re not doing my reputation any good,” I say, but before we can descend further drinks have arrived, and I order steak for both of us. I don’t ask, I know he likes steak, I know how steak should be served – rare and bloody, I am not about to listen to any dwarven crap – and I have yet to find anywhere better than this pub, oddly enough. He looks at me, as the barman wanders off, 

“Steak? Didn’t have you down as a carnivore.”

My turn to laugh,  
“Oh don’t tell me. I’m an elf, I should eat nuts and grains, and salad? An elf, not a fucking rabbit. Bloody hell, I’m a wood-elf somewhere long ago – you think we don’t eat meat? What the fuck do you think we hunt for? Shit, even tossing Noldor eat meat.” But now he is laughing, and I bristle, until he explains,

“You are beautiful when you’re angry. And – oh elf, you are very, very like a rabbit at times. At least, you were Friday night.”

And – and I relax, and laugh, and – I think the next hour or so is the happiest I can remember for years. It is like a date. 

The sun shines, the road outside is quiet enough that this feels like – like proper countryside, a real pub, I let myself imagine – oh Valar – that we could stay the night here. Be together – properly. Sober. Just once.

And if this is hardly the woodland of my dreams – well. Perhaps he wouldn’t like that anyway. He is a dwarf, after all, a very urban dwarf. 

Perhaps this is as close as it is possible to get these days. A pretty pub garden, neat flowers, trimmed trees, mown grass – perhaps this is as close to perfect as I will ever have.

His leg against mine under the table, his hand brushing mine as we reach for glasses. His eyes watching me. He orders pudding – I don’t eat pudding – but he insists I try some, and he feeds me.

I don’t care that it’s a lie.

I don’t care that he’s acting.

His pupils are dilated. That’s not acting. 

He wants me, as he wanted me Friday night. That’s not acting.

And if the rest – all the – pretend flirty talk – the – not quite love-talk – that may be acting – but I don’t care.

 

 

We don’t bother with the traditional argument over the bill. We both know I’m going to put it on expenses. 

Back in the car once more, he sighs, and I know he doesn’t like the way I drove this morning, so I calm down, I drive sensibly, and – maybe it’s the sun, maybe it’s the meal, but he dozes off.

I slow down, watching him sleep again, wondering if I dare just – park. Kiss him. Wondering how it would feel to just kiss gently, to have him wake looking at me.

I am afraid to try it. What if he cannot act in that first moment? I do not think I can bear to see the contempt in his eyes again, do not think I can face the proof that this is all an act, all lies.

I drive as slowly as I can, making even this last, but eventually I come to the turn off the road, and the bumping down the track wakes him.

“Where the fuck? Is this car up to this?” typical, I think, typical dwarf. I may be an elf, but I have owned more cars than you, and I know their breaking points.

From bitter experience usually.

“I need to show you,” I say, “and talk.” He sighs, and yes, I feel that too. These last few hours – it’s been fun. 

I park at the end of the track, looking out across the marshes towards the sea. For a moment I sit still, looking out over the water, aware of him next to me, hoping, hoping he will suggest – something. Hoping he will kiss me. It’s quiet here. Marshes and sea one side, beach and sea the other – some kind of coastal inlet – I don’t know – but – if it’s quiet enough for – for what I know it’s used for – surely – it’s quiet enough for fucking.

Kissing at least.

I don’t think I’ve ever kissed in a car.

Please.

Lean towards me, please. Reach for me.

Just this one time.

The moment drags out. I reach into my jacket pocket and bring out the envelope.

“Here,” I say, and I hand it over, “everything I could think of. Names, contact details. Outline of how to follow the money. Places – routes we use, meet signals, timings. Everything I could think of. Maps. I had to print them, but the rest is all handwritten – it’ll take them longer to know what I’ve done, stop them having the proof.” I don’t spell out why, I think he can guess. “Look through it now, then if there’s anything else, you can tell me and I’ll do my best.” I pause for a moment, then I think I should say it, “I told Ada, I had to. He’s left. I don’t know where he’s gone. I don’t want to. I hope he’s safe. I suppose you wanted him as well – but I can’t do that. I’m sorry, but he’s all I have. I won’t run. You can have me – and I’ll stand witness. I put in there, names of those I think would also. Some have left, some are still with us, but I know they are unhappy. You might need to offer them a deal though. I daresay you know more about such things than I.”

I get out of the car, leaving him to look at it all. I walk towards the sea, feeling a disappointment in the perfect sunny day. The way I feel, it should be cold, raining, sleet perhaps, a grey sullen sea in front of me. Not this mild breeze, sunshine sparkling off the blue waves, glinting up into my eyes. I stare out to sea, wishing I could lose myself in the cries of the gulls, wondering if there really is another land out there somewhere, a land where only elves can go. 

Wondering how many sins you have to commit before they will not let you in.

I do not know.

But I cannot believe I have any grace left. 

 

 

 

Disadvantage of being an elf – I lose track of time. So I have no idea how long I have stood there when I hear the crunching of sand that tells me he is coming over to me.

He stands by me, and we both look out for a while.

“This is it, then,” he says, “here.”

I nod.

“One of the places. But yes, that photo you showed me. Here. Poor little sods.” I look at him again, “I swear I did not know. I’m not saying I would have done the right thing if I had known, I don’t know what I’d’ve done, but I did not know.”

He nods, still not looking at me.

“I believe you. The envelope – thanks. I suspect we’ll have some of it, but not all. It’ll take us a while to move, you know that? You – you plan to stay where you are?” 

I sigh, because I know he isn’t offering me a choice.

“Yes,” I say. I don’t let myself think about Ada’s words, about Hal, about the rumours I have heard.

Then I find my wallet. I take out all but one card, and I show them to him.

“I need to eat, fill the car,” I say, “so I’m keeping the current account open. There’s not much in there, four or five k, that’s all. Enough to keep me going for a bit, until I’m taken in. The others – the details are in there – you saw?” he nods, and I begin to work through the cards, one at a time, tearing them in two with my teeth. Advantage of being an elf, strong teeth. Each half I skim out to sea, and when I reach the last I speak the words in the oldest tongue that I was taught to say over a grave, the words I spoke with my father for my mother, for my brothers. 

There is silence when I finish.

“I don’t know what will happen,” I say, still staring out at the waves, imagining how cold, how cold they would feel in February, how frightening if you cannot swim, how deep, “but you have the details of those accounts now. If – if I cannot – the money – there must be some relatives or something, rehabilitation maybe for some of the others. I don’t know. But when – when it’s over – the money could help someone.” 

I can feel anger radiating off him, I don’t need him to speak.

“No, it doesn’t make it alright, it isn’t enough.” I say, before he can, “it will never be enough, and I cannot make it right. But I think – I don’t know, but I think – if I had lost someone I cared for, I would prefer to grieve with a full belly, with clothes for my children, with somewhere warm to sleep. That’s what they came for, isn’t it? To send money home. That’s the lie they were told. So – it might help a bit. It’s all I can do. They died when they deserved life, and I cannot give it to them. I am doing what I can, piece by piece.”

He nods, and I feel his anger fade a little.

We stand there, and I want to reach out, to hold his hand, but I daren’t. He feels nothing for me, and I know it, nothing but contempt and – and lust.

All the rest is a lie.

I used to be a good liar. When did I discover it wasn’t enough?

Suddenly he speaks,  
“You meant what you said? About – about marriage being boring? About only fools wanting to settle down with one person?”

I keep my eyes on the horizon, I keep my face impassive,   
“Of course,” I say, “what did you think? Do I look the marrying type? One night’s enough, usually.” And I walk back to the car, not looking to see if he follows.

 

 

 

The drive back is silent, save for the chattering of the radio. I drive more slowly than this morning, more carefully, and all the time, over and over in my head I hear his question, and I wonder what he meant by it.

Over and over I wonder if I should not have lied.

When we get back to the office, we still do not speak. I leave him to wander where he wants, to ask the questions he needs to ask – whatever it is that policemen who are pretending to be auditors do. I go to my desk, closing the door behind me.

There is work to do, there is always sodding work to do. I do not care. I know what I want, what I need, and I rummage through my desk drawers to find it.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit. 

There must be some. I need a hit. Now. I need that buzz.

As I am still scrabbling, pathetically, beginning to accept that no, there isn’t, I will have to wait, there is a knock on the door. Piss off.

“What?” I am not in the mood for any stupid fucking idiots.

He comes in, and I feel something inside me leap. He wants – what does he want? I wait, and he says,

“I’m about done here. That stockcheck was the only outstanding thing. I’ll be back in my office tomorrow. It won’t be me at follow ups – I don’t know who it’ll be. I’m off now.” He gives a little sort of nod, and I realise he is about to walk out.

I get up, I walk towards him, I don’t know what to do, what to say, I just – I don’t want this to end.

I lick my lips, not flirtatiously for once, though I suppose it may look it, 

“I didn’t realise,” I say, and then I bite my lip, “I – I – I thought there would be more days.” Fuck, Las, what do you sound like? I look at him, helplessly, then, all in a rush, “What I said – on the beach – I don’t think that. I used to, no, I used to want to. Think that. But I don’t. Never did. I – I should think that to feel that – must be – to marry – must be – the best thing.” 

He stands there, in silence, and I hear my words, and understand how – adolescent they sound.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, and then, “I’m sorry this afternoon didn’t – quite go to plan.” Because I am. Because I think we both wanted to fuck again, but it didn’t happen, there wasn’t anywhere, and – and I probably screwed up.

I wait to see what he will say, to see if he will offer some – I don’t know – some meeting, some chance of more, something. Instead, 

“Shit happens,” and – he turns and goes. I make myself stay standing, make myself close the door behind him. I do not watch him walk away. 

 

I sit, my head in my hands, and I think, you bastard. You know how it is for me. You must know what I am risking. You could have said goodbye. 

You could have kissed me one more time.

You could have lied once more. Given me something to hold on to.

I will need it.

I don’t know how long I sit there.

Nice thing about being the son of the boss, people don’t come in, don’t ask stupid fucking questions. If the door is shut, they go elsewhere. Or wait.

Except for one person.

He walks in, calm as anything. Leans against the doorframe, examining his perfect bloody nails.

“You had him, your little dwarf toy. Wondered if you’d manage it. Well done, Las.”

I shrug and look away from him,  
“Was there anything you wanted, Hal? Only Ada has left me some things I need to finish tonight.” 

“Ah, yes,” he says, and the coldness in his voice should warn me what is coming, “your Ada. Where exactly is your Ada today?”

“I don’t know, he didn’t say. Just – away.” Not the most convincing lie I have ever told, but it will have to do. The trouble with not knowing where he is, is that I don’t know where he isn’t. Don’t know where it would be safe to say.

He looks at me, and raises a eyebrow,

“That is unfortunate. For you.” And a chill begins to creep over me, “because, we think someone may have been asking questions. And when people ask questions about us – we like to ask questions about them. We like to ask their friends. And we like to get answers.” 

There is silence. I have no idea what to say to this. I don’t even know if there is anything I could say that would help. He waits. 

“No?” he shrugs, and turns away, then, as I begin to breathe again, he looks at me, and says, “Good. I think I might rather enjoy – helping you remember the answers to Galadriel’s questions.” And he winks.

I watch him go, feeling sick.

 

 

I go through the file again. I find the number for his mobile – and I smile at the thought, the dilemma of Saturday – should I text him to tell him I was buying breakfast – as if I could have. I never had his number.

And I wish that had been the hardest puzzle of the weekend.

I stare at my phone. I don’t know if I should do this. I don’t know if it will work anymore, I have a vague recollection that by tv show convention the sim card will be gone now. But I have no other way to contact him.

I don’t know if it is a trap. If they have some way to know, to read what I send.

I don’t know what to do.

 

 

I try to be rational.

If they know – then they are watching me. But, if they know, how can I make the situation worse? How could it be worse?

If they know – and I don’t try to contact him, to warn him – whatever he is planning – will be at risk. 

He may be at risk.

If they don’t know, if that was just Hal being Hal – then they won’t be watching, they won’t know who I text or what I say.

Unless – they suspect something, but don’t know who. Then I would be giving them him.

But – the way Hal spoke. They know.

I don’t know what to do.

 

 

Suddenly, and I don’t know how it has taken so long, I see the worst danger. That if I don’t try to warn him, and whatever he plans goes wrong – he will blame me. He will think I lied.

And I don’t think I could bear that.

Besides, I remind myself, I have nothing to lose.

 

 

After a while, I put his number in, I type a text, trying to think how to phrase it. I don’t want to sound over-excited, and – even now – I can’t bear the thought of reiterating how I feel. 

I wrote it once. 

He didn’t want to know.

In the end I just put,

_Hal not happy. Suggest you are fast and careful. Las._

And then, because there is space, I can’t help but add

_x._

I press send before I have chance to think it through again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many thanks to Wynja2007 for allowing her OCs Canadion & Thiriston to make a guest appearance, I can only hope she approves of my interpretation.......they appear (in a far more rounded and interesting incarnation) in her story Where It Doesn't Show.
> 
> Again, I had hoped to include some pictures, but the technical ability is beyond me, it seems.
> 
> Sindarin - ernilen - little prince.


	6. Waiting

The week passes. Slowly, it seems to me. I suppose it is the same length as any other, but I am on edge, however much I try not to let it show.

Hal seems to be in my office more than normal.

I dare not drink, dare not use anything else to – take the edge off. I need to stay in control. I need to be able to ignore his words, to find an answer for each of his sallies, to – to not hear the threats.

Or at least to act as though I don’t understand.

I suppose it is fortunate that he has always thought me stupid. Pretty but stupid. Dumb blond.

Ironic, given his own colouring.

None would ever think that of Ada, blond as he is, as all Sindar are. Me – yes. Easy on the eye, not too taxing on the mind. They think I don’t realise how they sum me up – pretty, blond, gay – no brain.

Suits me fine.

Long ago I learnt it has to.

 

 

Nothing seems to be happening. I don’t know why not. I can’t contact Nairn. I want to, oh I want to, but I can’t. Daren’t try the texting again.

Be honest, Las, don’t lie to yourself.

I try to phone the mobile, I am so desperate, I think – just to hear his voicemail would help – but no. Number no longer in use.

I can’t contact him.

And now – for the first time – it occurs to me that I have no proof of who he said he was.

Fear grips me, as I realise – unlikely though it seems – he could have been working for – anyone. Could have been as he said, could have been some rival operation. 

Could have been for the Lord and Lady.

But surely they would have acted by now.

They wouldn’t use a dwarf.

They wouldn’t.

 

 

I try and tell myself – no. He was honest. 

But I know he wasn’t.

He looked no different – I don’t know which were lies and which was truth.

I curse myself for a fool, for not asking for some proof.

How could I be so naive? How?

Simple answer of course.

It wasn’t my brain I was thinking with.

I push the fear away.

No.

He wouldn’t have – have been like that – if – if he was setting me up for whatever horrors they would have in store for one who betrayed them.

I can’t believe it.

I won’t.

I won’t let myself.

I love him.

I trust him.

Somehow, I don’t know how, there will be a happy end.

 

 

I let myself imagine it.

Let myself see them led away.

Let myself imagine – imagine his arms round me again, a kiss, a long, fade-to-black kiss.

A bloody good fuck.

Exhausting him again. Having him sleep in my bed one more time – but – this time – being there when he wakes. 

I let myself imagine him smiling, not fully awake, hands in my hair, pulling me down for more.

Maybe – maybe even – another lunch out, another drive.

Doesn’t hurt to imagine it.

I love him.

I wish I could contact him.

 

 

But a voice inside says – he’s a liar. Like you.

He would say whatever he thought you wanted to hear, whatever would get the information required. 

He dropped you quick enough once he had it.

He didn’t kiss you, touch you, anything you hoped for, not once he had what he wanted. Oh he flirted a bit, pretended like he might – but – he didn’t.

He didn’t even say goodbye.

He won’t come back for you. 

He won’t come back for more.

He won’t say any of the words you want to hear.

And you, Las, you – cold, unlovable, you don’t even know what those words are. You can’t even imagine them.

I try.

I think of Ada and Naneth, of how they were together, how – intent on each other they could be – but I am neither of them, and I don’t know how to love like that. 

I think of my friend – and can I really call him a friend when I knew him so little – Canadion, and his lover, of how they were – but I never realised, never saw anything more than lust between them.

Maybe I don’t really know what love is.

And the nights seem long and cold, my flat seems big and empty. 

I keep remembering those hours – those sweet hours – when he held me, fucked me, time after time. When he slept in my bed, when I curled next to him. Even the – the shouting – when I was so ill – when he slapped me – made me come back to him – he stayed there, with me, he talked. He listened.

He stroked my ears, my hair.

It may all have been an act but – I liked it.

And I let myself take comfort in the memory.

 

 

 

Friday, I have still heard nothing in reply to my text, nothing from Ada, which is probably good, and there has been no other change. Two boats have come in this week with – other product – not to mention the usual shipments of athelas and miruvor in with the legal lembas. Hal is in my office almost all day, watching me, picking things up, flicking through files. I know he is just trying to put me on edge.

It is working.

“Still no word from your Ada?” he asks, and I shake my head. I have decided the less I speak to him the better. “Good,” he purrs, and I keep my eyes on the screen in front of me, not wanting to meet his, “and nothing from your little dwarf either. Oh, Las, I am looking forward to – asking you to tell us more about this.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, keeping my voice steady with an effort, “there is nothing. You know the dwarf had finished. Auditors do. They go back to their little caves, send bloody stupid questions over, then pop out again in a month’s time with accounts signed off. And – I think Ada works hard enough that he is entitled to a holiday. He doesn’t have to explain himself to you.”

Oh Eru, I think, now I have made him even crosser. But he already knows I hate him, he must do.

He laughs, and it is the single most chilling thing he could do. 

“Oh Las,” he says again, and I hate the sound of my name in his mouth, “sweet, sweet Las. I shall enjoy ridding you of this defiance.”

He ambles casually out of the room, and I – I have to bite my knuckle to keep quiet. 

Eru, I think, Eru, Elbereth, somebody, help me. I may not deserve it, but – please. At least – let it be quick. 

I do not check my phone again. There is no point. The eagles are not coming to save me. 

Dwarves have no honour.

He played me like a fool, and I cannot even find it in myself to hate him.

 

 

 

I keep thinking of what Ada said – of how Hal would like to see me suffer. 

I keep remembering the rumours I have heard of what Hal enjoys. 

I try to think of something – anything – else.

But the work is so routine that I find it hard to concentrate, and at night – at night I have not the energy to go out, to seek distraction. I should do, I know I should but – somewhere inside there is a part of me that thinks – if I do not – if I wait for him – if I let myself think only of him – surely – surely he will know. Somehow he will know, and he will come for me.

All weekend I mope around my flat – oh, I run, but only the usual weekday route – I don’t have the energy for more.

I want him.

I am not used to not getting what I want.

I love him. I do. 

That is what this feeling is.

I am not sure I like it, but I love him, and I am so afraid.

There will be a happy end, I whisper to myself, there will. 

And I know it is another lie.

He is not coming for me.

The eagles will not save me.

In my future there is only Hal.

 

 

 

The days pass, and I – I grow more and more afraid.

Why does nothing happen?

Why does nothing change?

 

 

 

It is month-end, and so I do not leave the office until late. There are all the back-ups to do, the figures to adjust, the reports to run off. I may not be here another month, I will not leave things half-done. Misplaced it may be, but I have my pride. I have not been a success at much in my life, but this I have been good at.

Corrupt, perhaps, but competent.

Inspired at times.

Something else I am good at, is getting laid. I will do that tonight, I think, I will go out and have one more night drinking, dancing, fucking. And if tomorrow comes, I will do it again, and again and again until I cannot.

After all, he has not contacted me all this time, there is no need to save myself for him, although that is what I was dreaming in some adolescent way.

What was I trying to prove? 

That my words on the beach were a lie, that my words in the office were true? That I do – have for so long – dreamt of finding one to love, one who would love me? That I can wait, I can be true?

I? Who have lied for so long, so well, to so many?

True to what?

A liar?

Fucks sake, Legolas, it is a long while since you were young enough to dream. Who do you think you are? Luthien?

Fucks sake.

I head to the washroom on my way out. I need to piss, and – powder my nose. Why not? I have the stuff, might as well use it. 

While I am washing my hands, admiring myself in the mirror, adjusting my clothes, and checking my face for tell-tale white flecks – never a good idea to arrive at a club obviously coked up, they get twitchy, even the club Ada owns – a cleaner comes in.

I don’t think I have ever noticed a cleaner here before. Logic suggests they come in, do their stuff, go away. I have a vague recollection of passing hoovers and suchlike in corridors or wherever these nights I work late. I just – don’t notice them.

You don’t, when you grow up surrounded by staff. It would be like noticing – each individual carpet tile.

But this cleaner – somehow – I look. He is a hobbit. 

I wonder what his story is, whether he wants to be here, whether he earns – anything worth having. 

Whether he hates me.

He ducks his head, not wanting to meet my eye, and I see a bruise showing above his collar. He limps as he walks, and I see – I see his feet – and I know a hobbit’s feet are like to our ears – his feet are – scarred. I feel sick. I did this.

I think for a moment, about what I am going to do. I wonder if Hal has left the building yet, I wonder if I will get my night out. They speak Westron, same as everyone else, hobbits, I think. Quietly I say,

“You know, the police here won’t hurt you. They won’t just send you back. They can’t. Not if you go to them and tell them what’s happened to you. Any of you. As many as you can. The more of you do, the more chance of them stopping it for good.”

He doesn’t look up at me, he just shakes his head,  
“No. Good hobbits wouldn’t do that. Good hobbits works hard. Nice elf-lord be kind to poor little hobbitses.”

Oh fuck. What have they – I – done to him?

“Well, just try and remember it. Tell any of you who – who don’t want to work hard any more.” But I don’t think there is a lot of point really. This one seems to be past understanding.

I leave him to his work. What else can I do?

 

 

Part of me wonders if I should go to a different club, but – I like this one. It’s where I always go. I know the bouncers, the bar staff – I think I may have fucked half of them. Like I said, I am not discriminating, anyone male and hot. There’s been too many nights alone for me to care much, these last few decades, since it got so much easier.

And so, there I am, drinking, dancing, eyeing up the possibilities, when – oh Elbereth be praised – I see him. The feeling is electric, I want to go to him, I want to – oh I want to fall at his feet – and not just for the usual reason – I want him to hold me again. I turn to move towards him, but he sees me, and catching my eye, gives a tiny shake of his head.

Oh.

I see he is with a group. 

I see his arm round someone else. Pull him close. His hand running over another’s body, as the other leans down to speak in his ear, and I feel sick with longing at the remembrance of how that stubble, that beard felt against my neck. For a moment I am frozen, but – I remember this may well be my last night of this freedom, and I turn aside, looking for someone to take my mind off this new ache.

It doesn’t take long before I have someone in my sights. A man, dark blond, intense, and – for a nice change – prepared to do the work. Chat me up. He even – bless him – buys me a drink. I realise how low I have sunk, when this feels like being taken care of, even though I know he is simply wondering how to get an elf in his bed. If only he knew, all he has to do is ask. 

Seems we are getting to that stage, though, as he has worked us away from the main floor, to a space near a wall. He leans over me – acting taller because of his bulk – and rests one hand against the wall beside my head. Oh yes, I think, here we go, and he moves his head in towards mine.

But, instead of the kiss or possibly corny line I am expecting, he says,

“Las, Nairn wanted me to speak to you. He daren’t. Same with the phone. Not safe – those – whatever you call them – we can’t be sure when they are watching you. We’ll be watching too. Shouldn’t be long now, we’re nearly ready to go, but it has to be all at once. You’ll be picked up, but separate. Think he’s got them to agree some protection for you, some kind of deal. You’re doing ok, just hang on.”

I nod, trying to take it all in, but – I can only think of one question,  
“Is that – his boyfriend?”

And I realise how much of my heart must be in my eyes, when this – whatever his name is – sighs, and says,  
“Las, you don’t need to know that, I can’t talk about that sort of thing. I’m sorry.”

He is about to turn away, when I grab him – advantage of being an elf, when I grab a mortal, they stay grabbed,  
“No. No. You owe me something. Just tell me. Is he – is he even queer? His name – I know you can’t tell me it – but – was there anything he said to me that wasn’t a lie?” 

I hate how desperate I sound, and I hate the pity in his voice as he shakes his head and says again,  
“I can’t talk about that sort of thing.”

He pulls away, and I let him go. I watch him walk back to his friends – colleagues perhaps – and I drink the lager he bought me, necking it from the bottle. Keeping my body as posed as I can.

For a moment I debate flaunting my skills. Going to, perhaps, the back room, or the gents, or outside the exit, with someone – kneeling down, hoping he walks past. Give him a show. Remind him what he is missing.

But – what would be the point? 

Either he wants me and can’t – because of the job. 

Or he doesn’t, and he won’t care.

Better not to know which, I tell myself.

It doesn’t take very much longer before I find someone to take me back to his flat and fuck me.

But it is hours that I lie in my own bed, waiting for the morning, wondering what he is doing, and who with.

Aching.


	7. Worse Things Happen At Sea

Still not really clear on why my lord Elrond has sent me on this trip.

Not that I mind.

I don’t mind anything much these days.

After all, I’m with my boys. They’re understanding enough – they know I just want to lie here, lost in dreams.

Coming out a bit now. Have to wait a bit, til I can stand again. Speak again. Then have another hit.

They’ll have some for me.

They’re good like that.

Don’t know why my lord wanted me to come really. Not as though I can do much. Not these days. 

Skill gone.

Pride gone.

Hope gone.

Love gone.

Everything gone.

Need another hit.

I’m waking. I don’t like waking anymore. Nothing to wake for. No-one. Not now.

No. Stop that. She wouldn’t like to hear you say that. Boys are here. They still need you. Our lord – he still values you. So. You have to carry on.

Can’t sail yet.

Soon.

My lord said. Soon.

Then I can be with my love again.

Just – got to do this trip. So wake up. 

Trying to open eyes. Clogged up. Sticky. So slow.

And somewhere, somewhere inside, I remember how I used to be, who I used to be. Golden warrior. Honour. Long ago. Long, long ago. Fighting, protecting her. Not able to save her Tuor. Failed. But failed with honour. Kept her safe, my love, Idril, her and little Earendil. 

He’s gone now.

And his little Elros.

Then little Arwen, ran off.

Just my lord left. And his boys.

My lord has no patience with me.

Not anymore.

Skill gone. Honour gone. Pride gone.

All of it lost. Gone. Just the boys left.

Eyes won’t open. Sticky. Like syrup.

Golden syrup. 

There. Still golden.

“Fuck,” that’s my little Elladan, “fuck, ‘Ro, he’s out of it still. Need him to wake. Come on, come on,” and he slaps my face, but it doesn’t do him any good, “come on, come on, we need you. Nearly time to work. Need you.”

“Shit. ‘Dan, if he doesn’t wake soon he’s not going to be any use. Honest – I think Ada might be right. Might be nearly time for the high there’s no coming down from. Might be kindest.”

No.

No.

My lord – my lord said I could sail soon. Be with my love again. 

“Eru’s sake, ‘Ro, he might hear. No need to hurt him. Poor fucker. Remember how good he used to be to us? Be kind.”

“Oh, shit, you are such a soft touch. No bloody use now, is he? Ask me, Ada should have ditched him years ago. Been a bloody liability since – since it happened.”

Yes. 

Suppose I have.

Since my love sailed over the sea. 

She didn’t even tell me she was going. Somehow that made it worse. 

She just went. With the lady Celebrian. Left me to take care of our lord and our boys. Not that I have been much use. Not anymore.

Not long now. 

My lord said. I can sail soon.

Must try. Look after boys. I try again, and this time my eyes open. Focus even. 

Eventually.

Elrohir has gone. Elladan is here. He grins, and helps me up. 

“More later,” he says, “need to make the meet now. Handover time. Come on, you know how it goes. I know you do. You used to come home, tell us about this, when we were too young to travel. Come on, Glorfindel.”

But – slow though I am – the words are worrying me.

“’Dan,” I say, and I am holding his shoulder, for balance and emphasis, “little ‘Dan, don’t – you won’t – won’t let them – get rid of me? Your father – my lord – he said – he promised – I could sail – be with my love again. Soon. I just want to be with her again.”

He doesn’t meet my eye.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says, “I know. Come on. This trip. Do this now. Then – then we’ll see.” 

I nod, still hazy, and as I get myself up, and piss, and try to make sense of things, I hear him mutter,

“Oh shit. Oh shit. Poor bastard.”

And I don’t know why. 

If I can sail, then I will be with my love again. And I have no need of pity.

 

 

 

I sit on deck, watching the horizon. Wondering, as I always do, if somewhere out there, she is looking, waiting for the ship that will take me to her.

Realising I am not even sure of the direction anymore. Feeling the ache in me that I have been without her for so long. The fear that she – she will have found someone more her own sort – clever, witty, well-read – over there. Not, not that I think she would be unfaithful. Just – that she might want to. Might realise I am not good enough for her. I never was, but – we were happy. 

I miss her so.

Every day of my life since she left. And I still don’t understand why she didn’t say goodbye.

Why she didn’t take me with her.

I would have left my duty, for her I would.

But she didn’t ask. And I feel cold from more than just the breeze.

Perhaps – perhaps she never loved me. Not really. Perhaps I was only ever – useful. Someone to look after her, her and little Earendil.

I wouldn’t mind that. Not if she still wanted me near.

But she didn’t even say goodbye.

Remembering why I don’t like coming down. 

The boys are arguing about something as they work. I don’t know what. Every so often they look at me, and then carry on, in their fierce whispers, in their own private language. Always been like that. 

So proud. So clever. Good boys. Always.

There are many things in my life I am not proud of, and these moments, when I am as clean as I get these days, I could list them – but I am always proud of these boys. Never caused us any worry. Never. Always good boys. Oh, mischievous, in scrapes, but – never bad. Not really. 

I remember them being born. Remember how my lord was so worried about his wife – it wasn’t an easy birth, they were big boys – he just handed them to us, then went back to her. Of all the people he could have handed them to, he chose us. I suppose he knew we would never, never let any harm come to them. Not then, not now.

There seems to be some sort of problem. 

Not just the argument between the boys, something else. I stand up, and walk forwards. The captain – or whatever you call the driver of this boat – is shouting. It takes me a minute to understand – he speaks Westron, not a sensible language. 

Bloody Men. Get everywhere now.

He is shouting we need to turn round, dump the cargo, if the meet isn’t here, that’s procedure. He’s right, but – my boys – they haven’t been trusted out on a run often. They were expecting to meet – I don’t know – someone they seem excited about.

“Time?” I ask, and it is a moment before they answer, but,

“We’re about right – few minutes either way. Glor, this bloody fool says quit now, run – “  
“- run like we’re scared. We’re supposed to be meeting Hal –“  
“- he’ll never let us hear the end of it.”  
“And he said – he said there might be something special in return.”  
“Yes. Bit of fun.”  
“He said. We should wait a bit. Just a bit.”

I don’t know. The captain is right. 

Can’t say I care for Haldir’s idea of a bit of fun generally, either.

I want to say so, want to say we should leave, but the words don’t come. Words aren’t easy now. I stand here, looking at them, my bright boys, my beautiful boys, the only things to make my life worth anything. I stand here, swaying a bit, and who is to say if it’s the boat or the coming down, and I wonder what to do.

Once, once I would have known. Would have been able to decide. Would have been able to command.

Not anymore.

Been too long.

I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. 

“Fucks sake, ‘Dan, why are you bothering? He’s no bloody use. Look at him.” Elrohir sighs, and turns away, dismissing me. He’s always had less patience. But then I look at Elladan, and – for the first time – I see something in his eyes. Sadness. Loss. And I can read what I have become.

I turn away.

And so I am the first to see it. 

A boat. I don’t know the words anymore. A fast boat.

Heading for us.

At first, at first I think it must be Hal, and I wonder when it became normal to show so little caution. I suppose he must be drunk. I realise I should say something, but as I turn, the others have already spotted it.

The captain shouts something in his own uncouth tongue. 

The boys react instantly, pulling out their guns, even as I am struggling to understand. This is not Hal. This – this is – what – coastguard? Customs? Some – naval boat?

I don’t know.

But as the captain does – whatever one does to turn a boat – there is a hail from the approaching vessel. Again, I cannot translate fast enough. I look at my boys, wondering if they can. Elladan spares a moment to glance at me.

“Fuck,” he swears, realising I am confused, “Glor, quick. Gun. Now. We need to fight out of this, fight and run.”

But I don’t have my weapon.

His father took it from me. Said I wasn’t to be trusted anymore.

I stand here, waiting, as he realises.

The captain shouts something else again, and Elrohir nods,  
“Yes, dump the cargo. Do it Glor, now.”

I nod, slowly, slowly, and go down below decks.

In theory, in theory I know how to do this. Cargo is all in one room. Easy enough. Open hatch, push. Wave gun if necessary. Except I don’t have a gun.

Still. They are so small. Simple to push out.

Only – I can’t.

They are so small. 

Terrified.

I try.

But – they are crying, saying something in their own tongue, I don’t know, and then – I realise – they can’t swim. Elrohir – my beautiful boy – my boy – my golden boy – he wants me to drown them – kill them – just to make us a bit faster, a bit more likely to get away.

I can’t.

I stand there for a moment. 

Then I think of something. The empty crates, ready for the return journey. I run, I open the door to the storage area. There are crates, barrels, all sorts. I throw them out, I push past these panicking – halflings – I throw one out and it floats – and I throw a halfling after it, and it grabs, and – yes. 

They understand.

Quickly, and these creatures can work fast when they need, they are helping themselves, and leaping out.

I daresay many of them will drown anyway.

But I tried.

I shut the hatch.

I go back on deck.

My boys haven’t noticed, the captain doesn’t care.

I don’t think he cares about anything anymore. I don’t think my Elladan – my Elladan – is going to notice much now.

While I have been distracted, while I have been – wasting my time – the other boat has opened fire. I suppose my boys – my brave boys – fired first. But – now the captain is dead, and Elladan – my Elladan – my little one – is dying.

I have seen wounds enough. I know when one is serious.

He is dying.

And we have nothing to ease his journey.

Elrohir stands, and suddenly I see what he means to do as he walks towards the wheel. Suddenly I know why I am here.

Long ago, long, long ago, when I was truly that golden warrior – I killed a balrog. One small boatful of coastguards is not a problem.

I push him out of the way.

“Jump,” I say, “swim. It is not that far. A few leagues. You are an elf. You can swim that far. Go home. Tell your father they knew we were coming. We were betrayed. Go.”

He looks at me, and I know he is about to argue.

“DO AS YOU ARE TOLD!” I bellow, and for one instant, one blessed instant, all my old power comes back, and he obeys. I take the wheel, and I hope this is as simple as it looks.

“Fuck,” I say, “fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

Behind me, I hear my Elladan laugh. It makes him cough, and I can’t bear to look – I know there is blood in that cough, I can hear it.

“You used to tell us,” he breathes, “that was the first thing you said when Ada – when Ada gave me to you.”

Yes. I did.

It was.

Never held such a small child. Had no idea how mucky they were, or how much they screamed. Oh my poor Elladan. And now you are trying not to scream, and there is as much blood and agony now as then.

Oh my beautiful boy.

I grunt, trying to force this – this fucking boat – to do as I wish.

There is a voice over the loudhailer. 

Don’t know what it said. I glance at my boy, but he shakes his head, best he can. 

“Going to ram them,” I say, I think he deserves to know, “going to go out in a blaze. Give ‘Ro a chance.”

He fumbles, and then – tosses me a lighter.

“’Dan, have you been smoking? You’re not suppose to smoke – “I start automatically, and then realise. Our eyes meet, and we laugh. He points to the cans of petrol, and I empty them over the deck. 

Nearly there.

I flick open the lighter, look at the flame.

Fire.

“Idril,” I say, quietly. “I would have liked to see her again, ‘Dan. I was going to sail. See her again.”

“Glor – Glorfindel – I – I’m sorry,” he says, and I don’t know why, this is what I exist for, until he says, “Ada – they both – she – Naneth – they didn’t sail. They’re dead. So – so you’ll be with her soon.”

My mind screams No. 

But too many things make sense.

I look at him, and he is dying, and I am going to burn, and my lord has lied, lied all these years, and my love is dead, and I am nothing, and my life has been for nothing, and all this, all this goes through my head, and my honour that I gave him was thrown away for what –for money – and I am nothing, and my love is dead, killed by my lord, and everything is wasted and gone.

I flick the lighter again.

I set the flame to the fluid on the deck.

I have a choice. I can avenge my love, or I can avenge my beautiful beloved Elladan, my boy.

I have no time to choose.

I find I do not need it, not now.

I point the boat, not at these innocents, these soldiers, whoever they are, but out to sea. Towards my boy, my beautiful golden Elrohir.

I will hurt my lord as he has hurt me.

I will destroy the only thing he has left.

I will take his sons with me.

And the fire rises around me until I cannot hear my own rage.


	8. Taken

Saturday is – Saturday. Much like any other.

Except I spend all of it remembering two weeks ago. Remembering him in my bed, remembering the conversation that brought my world tumbling down, remembering the sweetness when he held me, when he believed my – not innocence, but – lesser guilt. 

Trying not to remember how he left.

As I promised myself, I go out in the evening again.

Perhaps, I realise afterwards, that was foolish.

Because it is as I am stumbling home – not actually stumbling, advantage of being an elf, I don’t stumble – but I am a long way from sober, a long way from clear-headed, and – in need of a shower to take away the scent and ache of the things I have been doing – as I head for home, a car pulls up next to me.

For all my fast reactions – and they are fast despite the night I have had – I am no fighter. Not any more.

These elves are.

There is never any doubt of the outcome. I am blindfolded, bundled into the car, and it drives away. 

I wonder who it is, and where it is going, and what will happen. It seems to me there are three main possibilities. 

One – it is going somewhere out of town, somewhere on neutral turf, and I will be shot. Not so bad, I think. Quick, anyway. Halls of Mandos might be quite nice. Naneth. Brothers.

Two – something happens, someone is watching, and the car is stopped, the eagles rescue me. And I spend the rest of my life – or however much the courts deem just – in prison. Not something I am looking forward to, but right now, it appeals. 

Three – I do not even want to think about three.

“Enjoying the ride, Las?” the voice is soft, gentle almost in my ear, the hand running through my hair almost – almost – a caress. “I do hope you aren’t so drunk as to be – foolish. If you aren’t foolish – we could have a lot of fun together.” He laughs, so quietly, “or of course, if you are foolish, I will have a lot of fun anyway – but you – you I think will not.”

Oh fuck.

Option three is looking like the strong contender.

Eagles, I think, please, eagles. Shoot to kill, that would be fine. Or whatever that bloody policy is called here. Just – please. Stop this now.

 

 

I don’t know how long the drive goes on. It feels – it feels like years. Disadvantage of being an elf, time perception is skewed. Apparently mortals can track hours, days – not brilliantly, but better than we can.

And all the time, his hand is on me, his voice keeps coming back to whisper promises – threats – in my ear. Nothing definite, nothing that I can begin to prepare for, nothing I can let take me to fade, just – threats.

“I don’t know what this is about,” I keep saying, “I haven’t done anything.” 

It won’t do any good, I know it won’t, I just – I have to say something. Or I will be melting in terror. And – part of me wonders – the others in the car – if just one of them feels some kind of doubt – that would be good. Oh, I don’t think it will help me, I am not that foolish. I am a sunk cost. Gone. Written off. Depreciated asset. But – maybe – maybe – they will think twice another time.

The car stops. I hear the doors open, the elves begin to get out. He leans in again, and speaks, soft and gentle, intimate like the lover I never had, into my ear,

“End of the road, Las. Time to stop lying, start – playing. I’m sorry the – accommodation – isn’t very stylish – but – nevermind. I think you’ll have other worries soon enough,” he laughs, and spiders of dread crawl over my skin, “besides, unless you start talking to some purpose, you won’t be seeing anything for much longer.”

His hand brushes over the blindfold, stroking my eyelids, to ensure I understand his meaning. I keep breathing. All I let myself think of is the air I need. 

He sighs, as though impatient with a slow pupil, and pulls me out of the car. While I am still off balance, his fist – I think it is his fist, I don’t know, and I don’t really suppose it matters – buries itself hard in my midriff. I double over, coughing and retching, and he laughs again,

“Oh that’s a nice start. Very nice. Not so confident now, are we, Las?” and as I try to straighten, I realise someone has bound my hands behind me, there is a hand in my hair, keeping my head down as I am led – somewhere – and – and I wonder how long it will be before I can escape the only way I now have hopes of. How long until I fade? How much will I have to suffer first?

I find my voice again and say, hopelessly,  
“I don’t know, I don’t know what you want, I don’t know anything.”

The hand in my hair tightens, pulling, and for an instant I cannot but remember all the other hands that have pulled, and how good – how fucking good – some of them – his – felt. Don’t think of him. Don’t. Just keep on with the denial.

Then this will be over sooner.

Of all the sounds, this is the most unexpected – a beautiful – silvery – laugh, a gentle voice, the voice of an elven Lady. 

“Oh Haldir,” she says, chiding him like a wayward kitten, “I think our poor little Sindar is confused. Remove the blindfold.”

Eru help me. If She is here, this is not a quick execution, drawn out briefly for Hal’s pleasure. This is serious.

The blindfold comes off even as I am pushed to my knees. I keep my eyes on the floor. Somewhere a part of me must be still enjoying the coke, the alcohol from earlier, as I find the only coherent thought is that I would never have expected to meet the Lady somewhere with only concrete for flooring. Concrete covered by a plastic sheet. I am kneeling on the sheet.

Oh shit.

That means it is going to be messy.

Come on, Legolas, you knew that. The messier, the sooner it finishes. Just keep holding on to that.

Keep thinking about that. Nothing else. 

She can probably only read your front thoughts.

And in my head, I hear her laughter, ‘oh yes, only the front thoughts. But – I am sure Haldir can turn your thoughts where I wish to follow them. Or find the answers another way. Much simpler, much quicker to tell me now. Then we will be kind.’

I am shaking. I don’t know how long I can do this. I don’t know if I can do this.

But I must. I know I must.

I want Ada to rescue me. I want him to come charging in at the head of – of an army of elves with machine guns. It won’t happen, I know it won’t, I told him to go, I need to do this, to protect him.

There is only one person who might rescue me.

Please, I think, please Nairn – or whatever your name is – please – come for me. Soon. 

You said someone would be watching over me.

Please.

He will come.

He will.

At first I try to hold on to that, hiding it somewhere in the back of my mind. But he isn’t here, and it goes on, and I can’t, I can’t.

I need something simpler to hold on to.

And so I find a lie, the lie I am telling them, and I cling to that.

Liar that I am.

I don’t know anything.

Just finish it now.

Over and over, I cling to those thoughts. I write them in words of fire across the sky of my mind. 

I don’t know anything.

Just finish it now.

Don’t know.

Finish.

Please.

 

 

 

I don’t know anything.

Finish it now.

“Come on, Las, time to wake now. You’ve had a lovely sleep.” The voice is so gentle that for a moment I almost give in to it. To the hand on my ear, petting me. Stroking my ear-tip as I have so longed for someone – someone not a parent, not a brother – to stroke, to love me.

I want him.

I want him to have come for me.

But – I am not in a bed. I am on the floor still, on the sheet. And – never have I woken with my hands tied. That is not my game. And – the voice is not one I would ever wish to hear so close.

I make some kind of noise, I try to move away, try to open my eyes. 

“Ssh now,” he says, “better be slow. You were very brave. Alright now. You did well, now you just need to tell us where Ada is, and he can come and take you home.”

How stupid do you think I am, you bastard?

I spit and – it tastes different. Metallic.

It tastes of blood.

Ok, quite stupid, I think, as Hal lifts me up to him by the ear, holding me across him. Close to his chest as he whispers in my ear, intimate again like the lover I never had, the lover I dreamed of in the long nights.

“If that’s what you want, Las, we can go on. You might want to think a minute though. Try and remember. Lick your teeth. Open your eyes – eye. Swish your hair. Admire your nails. Stretch out those long legs, those legs which could run so far, so fast. Move your bow fingers,” and he laughs as I begin to understand, to feel the messages of pain, to recall what has happened to me.

Such a shame, I think, from somewhere a long way away, such a shame I was wearing my favourite jeans, this rather nice top. Shredded now. And stained. 

Stained red.

Well, reddish.

Such a shame.

Why doesn’t he come for me?

“I don’t know anything,” I whisper again, “I don’t know. Just finish it. Please.”

It’s a long while since I used a bow, I think, hazily. A long while since those fingers did anything much more than type or move a mouse. Send a text. Steer a car. Somehow listing the things I do – used to do – with that hand – helps. What else, I think, retreating from whatever horrors he is promising now into the warm dark of memory. Dress myself. Comb my hair. Hold a coffee cup. Touch myself. Touch another. All these things I can relearn. 

Oh. Except – I won’t need to. I’m not going home.

He hasn’t come. 

He doesn’t care. It was all a lie.

Well, that’s one less problem then.

I laugh, quietly, and I feel Hal tense,

“Las, are you listening to me?” he slaps me, as though he thinks I can feel something as gentle as that when the other pain is so great. No, I think, no it wasn’t all a lie. I won’t let it be. I loved him, and I will hold onto that. Even if no-one but me ever knows, no-one cares, I will have one thing in my life that is true. I love him, and I will hold on. I laugh again, for the joy of still being able to resist Hal’s words. “Las, it’s so easy. I don’t want to hurt you any more. She’s gone now. She was never really here – you know how they far-speak. Las, all you have to do is tell me, tell me and I’ll make the pain stop. I promise you.”

 

“Don’t know,” I say, although I have forgotten what it is I don’t know.

“Where is your Ada? Where will he have gone? Come on, Las, he wouldn’t want to see you like this. He’d understand. Tell me now, and it won’t hurt much longer.”

“Don’t know,” I say, and I can feel the tears sliding down my face, I don’t want any more of this. I’m not a hero. I can’t do this. I don’t know the answers. I don’t know what to say to make it stop. I want – oh I want to be rescued, I want him to come for me. And there is no-one to rescue me, he isn’t coming, and I don’t deserve it. I love him, but I just want this to stop. “Please, Hal, please, I don’t know, he didn’t tell me, please, just finish it.” I can’t even cling to him, but I want to, I want to, I want him to hold me, and end this. And the tears – the tears are only on one cheek – and I feel sick, knowing what he has done, knowing what he must be going to move on to do soon.

“Alright,” he says, and his voice is so gentle, so kind, in my ear, his arms holding me, holding me close, holding me as I wanted – someone – to hold me for so long. “Alright, Las, let’s try another question. Who did you tell? What did you tell? We need to know.”

I shake my head, best I can,  
“Don’t know. Didn’t. Didn’t.”

He sighs, disappointed it seems, and tries again,  
“You told someone. You must have. Every way we turn is watched. Every route covered. Come on, Las, three shipments stopped this week. Fuck, that’s not all. The lord’s sons – dead. Customs and borders raid after customs and borders raid. That’s not chance, and you’re the link. You must be. We know. We know you told. We just need to know how much. And who.”

“Don’t know,” I say again, thinking, but I didn’t know they were stopped, you must have been waiting for me to run to – to whoever – and ask them why they waited. Then I whimper as I feel the knife in his hand, “please, Hal, please, I don’t know, I didn’t do anything. I – I swear it. Please. Just – finish it.”

“Oh Las,” he says again, and it sounds like pity in his voice, “oh my pretty – well, you used to be – pretty Las. Don’t lie to me, Las. I know you told. You know you did. It looks to me like you told everything you knew – and that was too much – I just need to know which of your – little mistakes – you talked to. Come on, Las, tell me which one, and then I don’t have to go after all the others. Come on, save all the others, the ones who didn’t do anything more than take you home.”

He stops, and presses the knife against – oh Elbereth – against my ear, even as he keeps his mouth there, talking so calm, so persuasive, as – oh as I dreamed someone would one day, but not him, not like this, 

“Las, Las my pretty, think about all those lovely – oh you are not fussy are you – men, elves, dwarves, all the ones in the last – I don’t know – shall we say – month? Two months? Do you really want me to have to gut them all? Wouldn’t it be much better to tell me which one?”

I start to speak again, but he cuts me off,

“Or, if you don’t tell me soon, I am going to run out of patience, my pretty Las. You like mortals, don’t you? Oh yes, all these years, I’ve watched you. Well, maybe we should make you mortal.”

“Please,” I say, “finish it.”

“No, not yet, not yet, my Las, but – shall we trim your ears? Give you funny little round ears? Yes?” and he laughs, as I almost choke, understanding what he threatens, knowing he will do this, and that there is nothing I can say to stop him.

“I don’t know anything, I didn’t do anything, whatever you do isn’t going to change that,” well done, Legolas, I think, that was almost coherent, “just finish this.”

He holds me to him, the point of the knife tracing over my ruined face, the nape of my neck – oh, and how cold it feels, when was my hair ever this short – then back to my ear,

“You know, Las, you could have made this so much easier on yourself,” he says, “all you have to do, even now, all you need do is answer the questions. Where is your father – where might he be? Who did you tell – and maybe you didn’t mean to, I know, I know Las, you’re easily confused, maybe he tricked you, maybe you were drunk, high, post-orgasmic. Is that what happened? Tell me. Tell me who it was. Or were you desperate, begging him for what you needed, telling anything, anything because you believed his lies? Did you really believe he would care for you? Come for you? Save you?”

No. No please. 

I can’t listen to this.

It’s too close to the truth.

I hear myself whimper again, pathetically. 

“I don’t know,” I manage, “I didn’t. Please Hal. Please. Finish it.”

And – and it sounds as though it is real sorrow in his voice as he sighs, and says,

“Oh Las, you have to tell me, just give me one answer, that’s all I need, then maybe, maybe I would finish this now. I could do. She wouldn’t ask, you wouldn’t be the first elf to die a little early in this.” 

Early?

How much more is there?

Stupid question Las. As much more as he wants.

You still have an eye, some teeth, you still have most of your fingers, toes.

There are parts of you he has not yet cut.

Oh sweet Eru.

Please. No.

Please.

I shiver again at the thought of more – how much more? 

I just want it to end.

He holds me tight, so close, so warm, almost – almost it feels safe, but he laughs, and the joy in it chills me once more,

“Scared? Oh you are right to be scared, pretty Las, oh and you were pretty, Las. Not now. Don’t think you’ll be finding anyone to take you home after I’ve finished with you,” 

“As though I shall have the chance,” I manage, and think, well done Legolas, Ada would be proud of that, but he just laughs again,

“Indeed. I don’t think you will have the chance. Perhaps that’s a good thing then. Perhaps I’ll be doing you a favour when I put you out of your misery. Now, the only question is, are you going to tell me now? Or do I have to trim your ears? Yes, ears next, I think,” The knife is pressed against me, and I can’t answer – I don’t know what I would answer, “oh don’t worry,” he says, and the gentle caring voice is back, “there is a choice. I can trim your ears while you can feel it, or wait until after. They won’t know, they won’t care, they just like the tips for their – collections. So, it’s up to you.” he pauses again, letting the words sink in, then adds, “after all, you won’t have time to fade from shame. None will know. And – come on, Las, I know how your life has been – you can’t really say you have any honour left. Not after all the things you’ve done, all the rancid, dirty mortals you’ve let fuck you.”

“No,” I manage, “no honour. But I will not tell.” 

And I realise I have admitted that I know, that I could tell, so desperate for one small triumph, so needing to cling on to something, something I have done right in all my whole existence, my unloved, worthless life, but I am so scared, so scared he is going to hurt me more, I wonder if I should have lied. I used to be a good liar, I think, vaguely.

He laughs,  
“Oh, I don’t mind, I don’t mind which way we do it. Ears on, ears off. Up to you, pretty Las?”

“No,” I say, and I don’t know why, I can’t remember, he doesn’t care, he isn’t coming, no-one is coming for me, and I don’t know what difference I think it can possibly make, why I am buying myself extra pain, but I need to cling on to it, to that feeling, that I love him, that I will hold on, that I can, I can be true, so stupidly I say, “no, I don’t know anything, I haven’t done anything.”

“Oh Las,” he says, sorrowfully, “you are very difficult to help sometimes.” And as the knife begins to bite, I find I can no longer scream, my throat is so sore from earlier, all I can do is whimper.

All I can do is cling to the words in my mind.

I don’t know anything. 

Finish it. 

I have stopped saying please.


	9. From the Other Side of the Lines

Last two weeks have been hectic. Nightmare.

Fuck. Bloody elves.

Up and down the country. 

Ports.

Deserted shorelines.

Warehouses.

Dosshouses.

Old farms, used for storing – what did he call them – product.

Flats near Kings Cross.

Flats in the nastiest areas of city after city.

All over.

 

 

 

Not sure which are the worst. 

The bleak outbuildings, old shepherding barns, too far from anywhere for water, electric, not so far that the – product – can’t be stored there overnight, between days of labour, or for weeks at a time before – it – is moved on to where – it – is wanted. Is that how they think, these elvish bastards? Anyway. Grey stone overlooking bleak moorland, nothing out there but sheep, and I suppose, the odd bird. I don’t know. Not my scene. Doesn’t seem the right place for hobbits, despite the sheep. And the way they’ve been left to live – the squalor. No water, means no washing, no decent toilets. No cooking. Hobbits, with nowhere to cook – somehow that’s the worst of all of it.

Find myself wondering whether Las has ever been to any of these places. Not because I don’t believe him – just – I can’t help thinking that actually, he would look right here in this barren landscape, wild, hair blowing out behind him. I can imagine him striding across it, or standing on one of the rocky outcrops looking into the distance, seeing further than any mortal eyes.

Fucks sake, Gimli.

What about the others? The grotty, industrialised farms, barns and outbuildings of concrete, corrugated steel sheets, flat fields surrounding – heart of the cabbage-land of Lincolnshire. No bleak beauty here, no romance – no place for elves. Just miserable, tired aching hobbits, worked harder than any peasant should be made to work, chapped hands, feet – oh dear Mahal their feet.

What about the dosshouses? Row upon row of pathetic little bedrolls – so little, so small – from which they rise at – I don’t know what stupid bloody time – to go and work in – not even in factories, not even somewhere that might give them the dignity of production, the hope of unions, the care of those who buy their output, but as cleaners in offices – offices like the one pretty Las works in without a care – hobbit-cleaners picking up discarded sodding kit-kat wrappers, I suppose – cleaners in cheap and nasty fast-food outlets, delivery boys, domestics perhaps – I don’t want to think about the details. I should, but I don’t want to.

No home comforts in those places, no natural beauty outside, nowhere to cook. Stupid, but again, that seems almost the worst of it – they haven’t just stripped them of choices, of pleasures, but they’ve tried to take their hobbitness away, leaving them to live on – what – packet takeaways, cold and rancid, nasty kettle-heated meals-in-a-pot. 

Bastard elves.

And the Men – we are finding there are Men involved in this racket too. When that seems to bring shame to those around me, when I hear the temptation in Ki’s voice to gloat – I tell him – don’t. You don’t know – I don’t know – not for sure – that there aren’t dwarves involved somewhere.

Can only hope.

Of course, the dosshouses aren’t the only urban sites.

The flats – and oh the pity of it – flats in areas my father wouldn’t like, even now, to know I have been to, even like this, with work. Yet – the flats themselves – could be alright if they were cared for a bit. Cleaned up. And – hobbits being what hobbits are – they’ve tried. Tried so hard to make these places feel homely. 

But when you have nothing, not even the energy to scrub, not even the money to buy cleaning spray, when you have to wear the rags not polish with them – it’s not easy, even for hobbits.

Somehow, I know Las has never been to these places.

But at the other end of the market – as it were – those flats – for – entertaining the highest-paying customers – there, Las would fit right in. Very beautifully kept, very smart, and some of the hobbits in them – very, very pretty. All sorts. Male and female. 

Thankfully, I don’t think any of them are underage. I suppose hobbits are small enough already – and I feel sick even to have the thought.

When one of them starts telling us his price-list, and then casually – almost casually – bravado I think – explains there is a time limit, because he has to earn so much a night if he doesn’t want to be sent back where he came from – and I don’t think he means home, oh no, he means back to those other flats – when he says all this, I see my colleagues wince. Hardened though we like to think we are, it seems so much worse coming from hobbits, they’re so small. 

But I – I think – yes, Las would fit right in. Just an accident of luck, that left him able to pick and choose who he would do all these things with, and how fast, how many. And I wonder if he’s ever thought about that.

Fucks sake, Gimli. 

What a way to think about the elf you love.

Fucked.

The elf I fucked.

I don’t love him.

I don’t know him.

Concentrate on the job in hand, Gimli. Get the evidence, take the statements, round up the elves, and, above all, reassure the hobbits. It’s not their fault, they needn’t worry. No question of imprisonment for them, they are all on their way home – or into the welfare system. 

Yes. Jobs. If they want to stay. Safety.

Frankly I think it’s the least this country can offer them.

 

 

 

Shouldn’t need to be me every time. Isn’t. But – there aren’t that many firearms users who speak enough of the languages.

So I’m knackered.

Thank Mahal for a partner I can trust, I think, as Eomer drives us south again. 

“I need to go in, sign the glocks back in, bit of paperwork,” he says, “want me to drop you off first?”

I think about it. It’s tempting.

“No. Best not. Fi’ll drop me home later,” I say. 

When we walk in, we can sense something wrong immediately. 

“What is it?” I ask, looking at Fi. Cousin and boss. He looks at me, and I don’t know what I expect, but not this.

“Your elf. Turns out – he may have been having us on. Got into a car with that Hal and three others on Saturday night – well, this morning really – we haven’t seen a trace of him since,” he shrugs, “sorry, Gim, I’m guessing he’s gone. No evidence from him. Still, we’ve done well this week, weeks, should be able to get convictions for most of them.”

My face must show more than I like.

“Sorry,” he says again, “I know you liked him. But – he’s an elf. They lie like they breathe.”

I don’t want to believe it. I saw his – Las’ – face when he spoke about Hal. I saw his face when I told him what they’d been doing. He couldn’t have acted that.

Could he?

“Who saw him?” I ask, as though that will make a difference.

Fi sighs,   
“Caught on camera. Come and have a look. We had the face rec. up for Hal.”

He calls it up on my desktop. I watch it. It’s stop-frame. Jerky. But – yes. That’s Las. Three am, going home, I guess. Still not bandy, I think, but no prizes for guessing what he’s been doing. He’s not drunk, not stumbling, but I suspect he’s not drunk, not stumbling because he’s an elf. And yes, car pulls up. It’s Hal. And some others.

And – Las gets in the car. Looks like Hal’s arm round him.

Doors close, it drives off.

“Where to?” I ask. Don’t know why, just – trying to cover the bit of me that wanted to think – that he – I don’t know. He was so – oh fuck it.

Fi shrugs.   
“We haven’t followed it,” he says, “but – yeah. You’re right. We should.” And then, as he walks over to his desk, to put the request through for action Monday – tomorrow – morning, he says, over his shoulder, “funny he didn’t go home today though. Suppose he’ll turn up. We’ve got a watch-out for him at ports, airports, if he’s running we’ll find him. Otherwise – if he’s going with complete ignorance – he’ll have to be at work tomorrow. Surely.”

My turn to shrug,  
“He’s the boss’ son. I don’t think he has to do anything.” I say. And I guess – something of how I feel must be in my voice, because Fi looks at me, and waves a hand in dismissal,  
“Go home, Gim. Get some sleep.”

 

 

 

But all night – I keep bloody waking. Thinking about Las. Stupid. Should never have gone home with him. Should never have fucked him. Certainly should not have spent the night there. 

But – if I hadn’t – we wouldn’t have rolled in as much as we have this week. 

Fuck. What does that make me?

And – there was something in his eyes. Something when he looked at me, that said – I don’t know – that he wanted – I don’t know. That letter. I should have added it to the file. No. I should have destroyed it. I couldn’t. But – if he was going off with Hal – what does that mean?

But – there’s something wrong with that clip. Something worrying me. Can’t explain. But it won’t leave me alone.

 

 

 

I give up, about 4am, and get up. Father’s up already – he doesn’t sleep so well since mother died – by the time I’m downstairs he’s made me coffee and a bacon roll – but we don’t speak. Rarely do. No need.

I sit at my desk, office quiet – well – comparatively – this deep into an operation it’s not empty, but – quiet. Play the clip. 

Over and over.

Suddenly I see what’s wrong. 

Fuck.

When he’s walking down the road, his hair is loose. Wild. Mussed up. Just-fucked – and – oh – for a moment I can’t help but remember just how bloody good he was.

But – when he’s getting into the car – there’s something tied round his head. Not a hairband. Blindfold.

Shit.

I go to Fi.

“Look – fuck – Fi – where did that car go on Saturday night? Is Las in work today? Because – look – that’s a blindfold. I don’t think this is him running. I think this is him being taken.”

Fi looks at me, and I can see he wants to say, calm down. Just because you fancied him, doesn’t mean he isn’t a lying piece of shit. And he’s right. But – this is not my imagination. He looks.

“You could – could – be right.” He says, then, “Check it out. Phone his desk. Phone his mobile. From an untraceable. I’m waiting to hear on where the car went.”

I try his office – but I just get the switchboard, and a “Legolas is not in work today,” message. On impulse, I ask to speak to Hal – but he’s not in either. 

I don’t like that.

So I try the mobile number I have.

Switched off.

Fuck.

This doesn’t look good.

I see the text he sent me. So short, so desperately trying to be cool.

And then the little “x”.

Fuck.

I didn’t even answer.

Couldn’t. I know I couldn’t. But – fuck. 

I didn’t even say goodbye. I couldn’t, I know I couldn’t. Had to stay in role. But – fuck.

We had that day out – that lunch – that – I don’t know – not a date. That short space when life – life suddenly seemed to be in – what did they used to say – in glorious technicolour. What a fucking cliché, Gimli, but it did. That was how it felt. 

From the day I walked into that office – and there’ve been a lot of offices over the years, a lot of people to lie to, a lot of lives to pretend to live – after a bit they all get the same, it’s just a job, just what you do. Day after day of it. Not as exciting as you think it’ll be, just – routine.

But somehow – something about him – oh I suppose he was pretty. Funny. Clever.

There are a lot of people around I could say that about though. It was the way – I don’t know – I couldn’t but look at him, couldn’t but be aware of him, all the time. The way he walked, the way he looked at me, the way he – oh fuck – the way he brought me tea and biscuits.

The way he looked with a kit-kat in his mouth.

The way he watched me, all the time.

And then – that meal out – somehow that was more than shagging even. Sitting, talking, listening to him laugh, feeding him pudding – using my spoon to scoop the cream off his chin and into his mouth – fuck. I’m hard just thinking about it, about how he looked.

His pretty eyes watching me.

Asking for something. But I didn’t know what.

I know they say accountants are grey, but he – he was always technicolour to me. And then, just when I thought – he meant something by it – that letter, that sweet letter – but the way he spoke about marriage, about love. 

Only – he tried to take it back. At least, I think that’s what he meant. And I had to walk away.

Keep remembering those eyes looking at me.

I start agitating for a team. 

“We need to go in, get him out,” I say, “fucks sake, Fi, no idea what they will be doing. These are not nice people, and he was giving us stuff. They are not just going to shout at him a bit. We need him. We need his evidence. You know we do.”

He is not impressed,  
“Just because you thought he had a nice arse – “ he begins, but there are advantages to being his cousin,

“No, fuck no,” I say, “not that. Well, yes he did – does – but – I bullied him into talking. You know I did. And – if he is hurt – it’s my fault.”

We argue it back and forward a bit. In the end, he agrees. Get a team organised. But – wait til we know where to go.

 

 

 

The more I watch the clip, the more I see. 

The way he walks, to begin, the tiredness in him, the way his hair is so – dishevelled. He’s not someone coming home from a night of fun, he’s someone who’s been out trying to forget who he is and what he’s done.

And then – the car. No chance meeting. The way they pile out, surround him. Then – when they get in – and I realise how fast these fuckers move by how much has happened between the frames – the way Hal doesn’t let go of Las. The possessiveness. The way Las moves. Clumsy. When is an elf clumsy? And – sort of – hopeless.

And – I’ve met Hal. I can imagine the vicious pleasure in his eyes.

Oh fuck.

What will he be doing?

 

 

 

And the more times I watch the clip, the more I remember that night in the club. 

Not the night we hooked up.

The other night.

The first night I saw him there. 

The night he didn’t see me.

I saw him, drinking, dancing, and I suspect, coked to the eyeballs.

I saw him go off with one after another, after another.

I lost count – I wasn’t trying to count.

I wasn’t.

But – every time I looked, he was coming back out of the gents looking – pleased with himself. Every time I looked, there was some other guy – and I might be biased, but they all looked – rough – coming out with a swagger in his walk.

And it made me sad.

I don’t know why, I don’t – didn’t – even like him. Not really. Not then. But – that he should be so ready to take his pleasure there, with anyone, somehow – I didn’t like seeing it.

It seemed to matter to me. 

I don’t know why.

So when, the next time I was there, when I saw him drinking, his eyes wandering around the room, looking, always searching for – something – I couldn’t but wish it was possible. 

Knowing it wasn’t.

Knowing it was the last thing I should do. 

Chat up my – not-quite-boss. My target.

In his father’s nightclub.

Where I was supposed to be at least partly working.

His father’s very, very dodgy nightclub.

Where all the bouncers, all the staff would know him. 

He drinking. Clearly under the influence.

Not so much that he slurred his words, not so much that he lost control – he’s an elf – takes a lot to do that – but – I think he’d lost his inhibitions.

If he has any.

Otherwise – he wouldn’t have come over. Spoken to me. Bought me drinks. Showed himself off, dancing, preening.

And then – the way he just said,   
“I liked the sound of your idea. Bend me over, shag me bandy. Think you can manage it, dwarf?”

Maybe not the smoothest line in the world, but it was all I needed. Just looking at him, the thought of it. After all the hours of looking and thinking, and knowing I shouldn’t – then to have him offer – how could I say no?

So I didn’t.

Even though I knew I should.

Would have been bad enough if I had just – like all those others – gone into the gents, shagged him in a cubicle, had him suck me off for the entertainment of whoever walked in.

But no. I left with him.

Got in a taxi.

Went to his home. And a more soulless, depressing, poor-little-rich-boy flat I have never been in. Everything perfect. Everything expensive – beyond what I could ever afford. Everything – empty. Cold. 

Except him. Perfect, expensive, yes.

Nothing cold about him.

Fucking him. Don’t know how many times. Over and over. Twice before we made it to the bedroom. Then in the bedroom. Then on the bed. 

More than once.

Not quite every way I know – but a bloody good attempt. 

Even then, I didn’t stop. 

Stayed the night.

Don’t remember falling asleep. Just the waking.

Realising he wasn’t there. Seeing the note, that he’d gone out to buy breakfast. Wondering what the fuck I had done, what had I got myself into.

Looking at the time, knowing I needed to check in, explain why I hadn’t made it home – seeing the missed calls from when I switched the phone off. Knowing Fi would be worried.

And then – then I made the worst mistake of all.

Let him catch me on the phone to Fi.

And then – of all bloody stupid things – I told him the truth.

But without that – we wouldn’t be here now. Wouldn’t have so much information. If I hadn’t slept with him, we wouldn’t know what we know, wouldn’t have made so many arrests, wouldn’t be going to be able to write this one down as a success.

So I wonder again – what does that make me?

If I thought – and I did think it – maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did – when I saw him that first night in that club – that he was cheaper than a whore – what does that make me that I went to his bed and used his desire to get what I wanted from him?

I don’t know the answer.

But I don’t like the question.

 

 

 

As for the look on his face the last time I saw him – I don’t even want to think about it.

So I don’t.

I don’t let myself remember the flash of jealousy, of longing, of pain, when he saw me with another wrapped round me.

I don’t.

I don’t let myself remember the flash of jealousy, of longing, of pain, when I saw him wrapped round another.

Because that would make me even more of a liar than I know I am.

 

 

 

Eventually we get a trace on the car. Old warehouse. 

Car’s still there. 

Fuck.

Oh Las.

Fi is still a bit doubtful, but he gives in.

 

 

 

When we get there, it looks deserted. 

We go in.

No sign of anyone.

Spreading out. Carefully.

The three guards – or whatever – who were in the car – are upstairs. I hear them being taken away. They don’t even try to resist.

Where’s Hal? 

Back in the entrance lobby, I see another set of stairs. Down.

I go, two of the lads behind me.

There’s a serious door down here. I motion to the others to be ready – don’t know what we’re going to find. Might need to shoot.

The door opens easily. Nothing in the first room. But – oh shit. The sounds from the next room – are not good.

Hal. I recognise his voice – though I might not if I wasn’t expecting it.

“Oh pretty Las, come on, tell me, you know you want to,” on and on, and oh dear Mahal, I can hear Las – that proud voice, broken, begging,

“Don’t know, don’t know, finish, oh dear Eru, finish it. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

We look at each other. I feel sick.

I point to the door, and they follow me.

 

 

 

Inside – oh shit oh fuck oh sweet lord – I have never – seen anything like this.

Before I can even start to think, to process the scene, the blood, the – oh dear Mahal – the mess – Hal is up off his knees, letting Las fall to the floor, and – oh bloody fucking elves – he drops the knife he is holding, and,

“No knife. Unarmed. Surrendering.”

I look at him for a moment, and realise – he actually thinks he will get away with this. 

“Oh look, Las,” he says, conversationally, “It’s your little dwarf-toy. Thought it was him you’d been talking to. I’m sure he won’t mind the ears. Probably prefer them. And all the rest – well I don’t suppose dwarves are very fussy. I expect if you ask nicely, if you beg – you’re quite good at begging – I daresay he’ll fuck you again.” 

But I can’t listen to more of this. I don’t care, I don’t care that he’s unarmed. He’ll never go down for long enough to pay for that wreckage on the floor. That wreckage which was the most beautiful creature I ever saw. 

My gun is already there, pointing at him, all I have to do is pull the trigger. 

One shot would be enough.

I keep firing until I register the voice in my ear. Bard, beside me, shouting,   
“Stop, Gim, fucks sake, stop. He’s dead. It’s over.”

I lower the gun. I can’t believe what I’ve done. I’ve shot a man – elf – who had surrendered. Dropped his weapon. 

Fuck.

Crossed the line.

Bard takes control. Fortunately.

“Get an ambulance. Medic. Now,” he says to Eothain. Then, “good thing you spotted the gun in his other hand, Gim.”

I can feel Eothain open his mouth to say ‘what gun’, but Bard gets there first,  
“Get the fucking medics, there’ll be a gun in his hand before you’re back.”

True to his word, he does it.

I am on my knees beside Las. I don’t think he knows me; don’t think he knows anything anymore. He’s passed out. 

I hope.

Either that or he’s dead.

Fuck.

No.

No.

To be honest, if Hal hadn’t been saying his name, I’m not sure I’d know it was him.

The medics come. The building is cleared now. 

I’m the only one who’s fired a shot. I give up my gun, I’m taken away. Shit. Even with Bard’s version of events, even with Eothain backing up, it’s not going to be an easy one. 

But all I can think about is Las.

Suddenly I remember and turn to Bard, who’s in charge now,   
“Fucks sake, get some protection on Las. Get him watched. Get – get Eomer if you can. Las knows him a bit. Be better when he wakes if there’s someone he recognises.”

He nods. 

And I know it’s me that poor bloody elf is going to want to see. But there is no way I’ll be able to. Not before all the court stuff.

I just keep thinking – nearly thirty-six hours. Thirty-six hours. That’s how long it took us to get to him. I wonder how long thirty-six hours is for elves – how much they can do in that time.

All that time I was lying in bed last night.

He was here.

But – he didn’t give up.

Fuck.

I’m not giving up on him now.

However long it takes.


	10. On Remand

I don’t know anything.

Just finish it.

“It’s alright now, you can wake up now, it’s alright, it’s going to be alright,” and I don’t recognise the voice, so it isn’t him. And – I can move my hands, a bit, and – I’m not lying on plastic covered concrete.

But I don’t know where I am, I don’t know who is talking to me, and – and oh the memory is coming back. And it hurts.

Everything hurts.

Body. Legs.

Hands. Face. Head. 

Where my teeth used to be.

Where my nails used to be.

Where my eye used to be.

Where my fingers used to be.

Where my ears – my ear-tips – used to be.

My – I don’t have the word – my fea? Is that what this ache in me is?

He didn’t come for me.

I don’t want this. I don’t want to live like this.

No.

I begin to retreat. There is nothing I want to wake up for.

“Shit,” I can hear someone swearing, “shit, he’s going. Oh shit. Get the – whatever his name is – he said to call him – get him now.” And then, “come on, Las, come on, you can’t do this. Don’t make me have wasted my time.” And then this – whoever he – she? is, poking me, prodding me, and,

“No,” I still can’t talk properly, still whispering, “no. Don’t. Please. Don’t make me. I don’t know anything. Want it ended.”

Someone else now, arguing, I don’t know, I don’t know what they want from me. 

“I don’t know anything.”

“Finish it.”

The person – don’t know who, what – don’t know what they are going to do now, don’t know what else there is to do – please, no, please – leaning over me, too close, but I can’t scream any more, can’t even move away, and

“It’s alright, Las, it’s alright now. I’m going to give you this, make you sleep, sleep some more. Proper sleep. Close your eyes.”

I can’t, I think, I can’t. I’m an elf, you bloody idiot. 

And I only have one eye left.

But I can’t say any of it.

 

 

 

I don’t know anything.

Just finish it.

This time, I don’t feel quite so – helpless. I can move, a bit. This is a bed.   
Not my bed. 

Still hurting.

Still want to scream.

Trying to see.

Can’t.

“It’s alright, Las, you’re in hospital now. We’re watching you. You – you can’t go anywhere, but no-one can get to you either.”

What?

“Oh shit, you don’t know what I’m saying, do you? Do you even know who I am?”

Can’t see.

Recognise the voice. Not – not him. Not Hal.

Oh Eru, who is it?

I – I want Ada. 

No. No. I don’t. He mustn’t come back. Protect him. Keep him safe. My turn now.

Who is this?

“Las – can I call you Las – is that alright? – you’re safe now. Just – just need you to get better. Need you to talk to us.”

I don’t know anything.

No. This isn’t Hal. Trying to see who it is. Fuck, I think, tell me who you bloody are. Can’t focus. Blond. Tall. 

Man.

Good. Don’t want elf see me like this.

Not an elf any more. Ears. Ruined.

Oh. It’s him – from the club.

“Police?” I manage.

“Yes. Well done, Las, well done. That’s who I am. Eomer. Nairn’s friend. He – he can’t see you. Not – not before it all goes to court.”

Oh.

Good.

I look crap.

And I almost laugh at myself. As though it matters. As though any of it will ever matter again.

He didn’t come for me.

“Not Las,” I say, “not any more. Legolas. My name. He – Hal – called me Las. Not any more.”

I think he nods. I still can’t see properly.

“I understand,” he says, and I think, no, you fucking idiot, you don’t, I hope you don’t, you don’t understand, but – I’ll take what I can get, and he’s trying to be kind so I don’t say anything. After a minute, he says, “Legolas, I’m going to tell you what’s going on, I know you won’t get it all, I’ll say it again as many times as you need. We got to you – no, first, we raided, we broke a lot of the chain, we – it doesn’t matter all the details – but – we got most of them, we think. Certainly the main ones. Shot, arrested, it all went a bit manic. Your father – we haven’t found. Haldir – we found him with you. I – I wasn’t there, he got shot. You might like to know that. He’s dead. Definitely. Very, very dead. But the others – there’s going to be a trial. A lot of trials. We need you. We need your evidence. But – we can’t stop you going to trial as well. I think Nairn told you that. We can see to it you’re safe. I – I wish – we wanted to get to you sooner. There was – a cock-up. But, you will be alright. That is – I think you know you’ve lost an eye, your legs are hurt, and your hand, but – they say – it will heal, you will be alright.”

He stops, and I think, you have no idea. The eye, the hand, the legs – not good, but I can deal with that. That isn’t what’s killing me inside. 

My ears. I suppose – I suppose the hair will grow back. Wear it different. Be ok.

I’m a good liar. Hide it. Pretend I’m still an elf.

But the other.

What he did.

The way he spoke to me. The way he held me.

The way he made me cry, and cling to him, and beg and plead.

Those moments when he was my whole world.

When he hurt me beyond what I knew I could bear.

As though he knew what I am.

But – no-one who knew me ever wanted me.

The one I wanted – didn’t want me. Not really. He lied.

Hal – it was honest.

As though – as though he knew me. 

As though he knew me like a lover.

And I don’t believe love could ever be like that. I don’t know what it would be like, but not that. But – but the way he was. I don’t have the words. Just – he is in my head now. 

He always will be.

I don’t want to have to wake every morning for the next – thousand – years and try not to remember it. Try to piece together what happened, or try to hide from it.

I suppose this is why we fade. I want to.

No. Won’t let him win. 

I can’t.

Have to believe there could be something – someone – else. One day.

He said, said they need me in court.

He said they came. They did come for me. 

And I can hear Hal’s voice whisper inside my head, ‘They didn’t come for you first. Didn’t come until they’d raided everywhere else. Only came for you then. Last. No-one cares about you.’

Ada cares, wherever he is now, I tell myself in answer.

As though that helps.

I can hear the mocking laughter.

“Want – after – can I see Nairn after the trials?” I ask. I don’t care what this man thinks. He is only a man. And I remember how desperate I was that night in the club, and I think it is more allowable now.

He hesitates, and that is all the answer I need, although he swallows, and says,

“Yes, yes, I’m sure. After. I’ll see that you do.” And I think he is kind. He isn’t saying what he must be thinking, that Nairn – if that is his name – Nairn was just acting, using me, saying what I wanted to hear. That Nairn has a life, a boyfriend – maybe even a girl – that I was never anything to him. That – that even if I were, I am going to be spending a long while in prison.

That I look like shit.

And always will.

That I don’t know anything about him.

That it wasn’t love. Never love.

Just lies.

I close my eye again, and find the dark. I like the dark. It’s safe there.

 

 

 

I spend a lot of time in the dark.

Funny. I never understood how mortals could bear it. Closing their eyes to sleep, being in the dark. I like it now. 

I used to like coke for the edge, the hype, the dancing through the knives in the air feeling it gave. Now – now I don’t know what drug I would want – which is good, since I can’t have any – but it wouldn’t be that. Something – something to calm me down, make me feel safe.

I want Ada.

Every night, I want him, I remember how he used to hold me, long ago. Even, even recently, he would touch my ears, comb me sometimes. Not anymore. Not now. 

Not these scarred ears. These ears which are not elven. Not this short hair.

It isn’t always the same – whatever you call them – policeman? But often I find it is. I like that one. Sometimes, sometimes he will talk. Not about anything much, just what he’s been doing outside work, his horse, riding, the weather. 

It’s nice.

Dull, but nice.

I value nice, right now.

As they start reducing the – whatever the dope is they are pumping in to me – I start getting nightmares. Mostly, they just ring for medics. But he – he will sit and hold my hand, talk to me. 

It helps.

He even – when it isn’t too painful – he will hold the bad hand. Perhaps, I think, it is because he is mortal – because he is a man. They have – illness – stuff – happen. Perhaps it isn’t so bad to him.

I wish – I wish I could see Nairn. He was mortal, I think, maybe – maybe this wouldn’t matter so much to him.

At least, maybe it wouldn’t if – if he had cared for me at all.

Don’t think about him. I know that is the sensible thing to do. But – there isn’t that much else to think of.

I will not hear from Ada. 

It is a long while since I risked friendships.

Well, I suppose I would like to think Canadion was a friend. But – only ever a good-time friend. Not a friend you turn to when something bad happens. And anyway, he is married. Gone north. I don’t suppose he will even know what has happened – and if he did, I am sure that great over-protective Thiriston would not let him come near me.

Don’t be bitter, Legolas. You are just envious.

Hopelessly so.

I know – I know that when the – proceedings, as he calls them – start, I will lose everything. Assets reclaimed. Because they were bought with – money from illegal activities. 

Not that it really matters.

I won’t be going anywhere except prison for a long time.

I find I don’t care much about most of it. Maybe I will later, but not yet. I don’t care about the flat, the stuff – all of it? I don’t know – for a moment I think of my beloved car, my Jag, my beautiful, beautiful car, and I feel a pang of loss, but – I can’t drive it now. Not with one hand, one eye. I don’t even know if I could get in it, so low to the ground. I don’t bend well. 

Besides, when did I ever have a car that I managed not to write-off, sooner or later?

Like the flat, anyone who buys it will value it.

Probably more than I did if I’m honest.

I suppose Ada’s house – the house he built long ago – the house I have memories of my brothers and Naneth in – I suppose that will go too.

That hurts more.

I wonder what happens to their things. But I don’t ask. 

Best not.

This man – he kindly doesn’t talk about that. Just general stuff. 

I know I mustn’t, but I wish I could ask him about Nairn. Not – not because I think I have any chance of anything, just – it would be nice to know about him. Nice to have something to dream of, to comfort myself with. What he is doing, what he’s really like.

Not that it matters, I suppose.

I could make up anything. Imagine the perfect lover and call him Nairn, give him those looks. After all, it isn’t going to happen.

He didn’t come for me first.

He didn’t come at all.

He hasn’t even tried to – to send me any kind of message.

He didn’t care.

All of it was a lie.

 

 

 

The time comes when I am probably well enough to leave the hospital. But they don’t know quite what to do with me.

Apparently there is a shortage of places for someone as vulnerable as I am.

So I stay in the hospital for a bit longer.

Good.

I am used to this now.

No-one here looks at me oddly, despite my clothes. I find I am very conscious of my clothes. I hate wearing tracksuits all the time, pull-on tops. Hoodies to cover my – lack of hair, my ruined ears. Hate looking so awful.

I cannot bear not to be able to dress myself.

There must be a way to do buttons, zips, all the rest of it with one hand.

The wrong hand.

Hal was an archer too, once, I remember, before he found out about the joys of knives. That will be why he took my bow fingers.

They – Men – used to do that. Long ago. French against English, in those days.

I think.

I don’t know, I never paid attention, not really.

I was only the ernilen, the little one, never expected to need to know.

Never thought it could happen to me.

Eomer – that is his name – is still my – warder – a lot of the time, and he seems kind. He does not comment when I begin to practice, over and over, the clothes on my lap, until I have taught myself to manage.

As best I can.

Some things, anyway.

Some things are gone forever.

 

 

 

The time comes, as I know it must, when he says I am well enough to begin the official interviews.

Apparently everything until now is only – hearsay. Not properly recorded.

Apparently I could change my story, deny everything.

It would be my word against theirs. What I knew, whether I knew. 

For a moment it is tempting. But,

“Of course, if you were to do that,” he says, “there would be no reason for us to protect you. You might well walk free, although you might not, you might end up in the main part of a prison, in with – anyone,” he looks at me, and I try not to flinch, as he adds, “And of course, if you were free – where would you go? You don’t know where your father is, you won’t have anything here, but – I expect they would find space for you in the Valley. Or the Wood.” 

Yes, I think. A little over six feet. 

Eventually.

“We do need your evidence,” he adds, “it could be the difference between conviction, long sentences, proper justice, and – a slap on the wrist.” 

Part of me still hesitates, wondering.

He sighs, “I didn’t want to say this, but – Nairn has worked hard for this. If you back out now, it won’t do him any good.”

I meet his eyes, and I could cry at the pity I see in them.

“There isn’t really a choice,” I say, “you’re right. There is nowhere else for me.” I don’t say, and no-one else. I don’t need to.

 

 

 

 

Before we start, I am told I have the right to legal representation. I raise my eyebrow, wondering what in Arda a lawyer could do for me. Eomer sighs,

“I would be grateful if you would at least meet the elf who is keen to represent you. You can tell him – whatever you like. But you meet him. Alone. If only to get him off my back.”

I agree. 

But, and I suppose it is foolish of me, I am taken aback when he walks in. Tall, thin, dark, he is a very typical Noldor, yet – something in him reminds me unpleasantly of Hal. 

“Mae govannen, Legolas Thranduilion,” he says, “you may not remember me. I am Erestor Vanimedlion, and I am to be your defence counsel.”

I stare at him. He thinks I may not remember him. 

The lawyer for – Nostalelma SA – thinks I may not remember him. How many damn meetings have I sat through while he and our Arasfaron argued over contracts? How many hours have I sat and daydreamed about – well, the things I usually daydream about; cars or men – while he nitpicked every single fucking detail?

Never even had the decency to bring along someone pretty for me to look at.

How stupid does he think I am?

He reads my expression.  
“Ah. You can see better than I was informed. My words were a courtesy; I had no doubt you would remember my name, but I knew not if you could still recognise my face.” 

Oh. Not stupid.

He thinks I am blind.

“It does not matter,” I say, although it does, it does matter. Is that what all think of me now? Is it better or worse? Dumb blond or blind, maimed and crippled? Ruined? “I know you, and I know I cannot pay your fees.”

He smiles, a small, collected smile,  
“No indeed, Thranduilion. As matters stand your assets are frozen, possibly forfeit. However, I am conducting, or shall we say co-ordinating, many defences that are – related to your case. And so – there is an interest who would be happy to pay your costs. Of course, in the event of an acquittal, you will be as wealthy as ever, and so I think the invoice might in that circumstance arrive at your door.”

I shake my head.

“I have no money. I have no money I will spend. No money that is clean enough for me to touch,” my voice is rising, I want him out of here, I want to be free of it all, “I have no defence to make, I am guilty of all I stand accused of. And I will not have your – interest – paying a single penny towards me anymore. I will be rid of you, and your lords and ladies.”

He leans forward, and softly, menacingly says,  
“I was told you might say something like that. And I was told to remind you – you will never be rid of us. Never be rid of your past. We have not found your Ada yet, but we will. And if you persist in this attitude, he will pay as you have only just begun to pay. Hal had brothers you know.”

I swallow. 

I am sorry, Ada. 

I am so, so, sorry.

“I care not,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow,  
“Indeed. Time will tell. Remember, little Sindar, all that happens is your choice. Will you really not see sense?”

I shake my head again, unable to speak.

He sighs, dismissively,  
“Are you really so blinded by – some crush? On what? A mortal? A Naug?” 

Again I am silent.

“Your poor Ada. Sharper than a serpent’s tooth indeed. Worry not, we shall ensure he knows to whom he owes his suffering.”

I look away.

“Get out,” I manage. “Get out, before I have to call someone.”

He laughs and leans closer still.

“Oh, believe me, I am happy to go. I would cheerfully see you rot. My bright beautiful boys are dead because of you. My friend is dead because of you. The lord and lady – will likely spend many years where they would rather not be because of you. So – enjoy your time inside, little princeling. It is a shame you are not so pretty anymore – you will not find it easy to persuade anyone to protect you. But there, from what I hear, you are not fussy. Perhaps you will find life among such types to your liking.”

And he walks out.

I understand his words, and I shiver.

Nairn promised – promised – I would be alone inside. Somewhere safe, protected.

But he promised they would be watching over me.

He lied.

 

 

 

Eomer returns, accompanied by – some other officer. I cannot be bothered learning all their names. There is only one I wish to see, and I know I cannot see him until all this is over.

“You sent Vanimedlion away?” the junior confirms, and I nod. I do not give reasons.

Eomer does not look surprised.

“I thought you might,” he says, and to my surprise, goes to the door, “Telcontar,” he calls, “we’ll be needing you in here.”

A man walks in, and I automatically run my eyes over him, learning all I – used to need – to know. All that is no longer my concern – scruffy, barely shaven, tall, dark, handsome, strong, nice package – wedding ring. 

Old habits die hard I find. 

Eomer gestures,

“Aragorn Telcontar,” he introduces, “Legolas Thranduilion. Legolas, you need a lawyer. I need you to have a lawyer – for that matter, Nairn needs you to have a lawyer. The case needs you to have a lawyer. Otherwise – because of the undercover – because of – your involvement – the incident with – Hal – there are going to be questions asked. An implication of pressure – undue influence on you. Your evidence discredited. I thought you wouldn’t want Vanimedlion, but Aragorn is alright. Mostly legal aid stuff, helping the poor but innocent, but if you end up with money you can pay him,” he turns to the other, “is that right?”

This Aragorn nods,   
“I should like some time alone with my client,” he says, and it is not a request. 

 

 

 

When we are alone, he stands, facing away from me.

I had never noticed before how often I used my height to control a conversation. 

I cannot now.

I cannot stand easily, or for long.

I cannot lounge, or move fluidly.

I cannot dance.

I cannot kneel.

I have no idea which positions I could still fuck in.

I don’t suppose it matters much. The opportunity for any of those things is likely to be small for many years to come.

They said – at the hospital – they said it would continue to improve. There was no more they could do – no more that needed doing. No more that could be done, really. But because I am an elf, it should keep improving. It might even fully heal. One day.

But I no longer feel like an elf.

Elves heal because of our fea – because we are bound fea and body differently to mortals.

But my fea – my fea is not as it was.

He did not come for me.

I am no longer as an elf should be.

My ears are ruined. 

I am ruined.

“I know what you are accused of,” his voice breaks into my thoughts, “I have no connection with the case, but my wife – my wife was once daughter to Celebrian.”

I go cold with fear. He is here to silence me. Eomer brought him.

Is there no-one I can trust?

He turns, and must read my face,

“I said was. For long now she has been estranged from her kin. She chose me; she chose our life, such as it is. But I know what you are accused of, and what you have likely done. However, there is no justice if even such as you are denied a fair trial. Besides, as Eomer said, we do not want your evidence discredited.”

“I am not asking for defence,” I say, “I did all that they say. The only thing – the only thing I dispute,” I look at the charge sheet again, “is this. I did not know about the hobbits. I should have, I should have asked, I am guilty by omission, and I will not make an issue of it – but I want you to know – I was never involved in the day-to-day side, and so – I did not know.” I see his disbelief, and I sigh, “I swear I did not. I – they let me assume it was another drug-line. Stupid, yes, I have been blind and stupid, and – I have done many things. But not rape and slavery, not knowingly. I would like you to believe me. Nairn seemed to.”

He looks blankly at me.

“Nairn?” he asks.

I drop my gaze, caught out in my desperate clinging to a lie, to a romance that never happened. To the happiest days of my life.

“Nairn – I do not know his real name – the undercover officer.” I say, reducing it all to the squalid lies and information gathering that it was. He looks down at the paperwork, and nods.

“Referred to here as Officer X,” he says. 

Officer X.

It is a wonder to me how many times my heart can feel as though it breaks.

I barely knew I had a heart until recently.

It is a wonder to me how many tears one eye can cry. I had thought – if I had thought – that it would be less than two. It seems not.

But I do not disgrace myself in front of my new lawyer. I remain cold, impassive, quiet and dignified.

All that an elf should be.

But I no longer feel like an elf.

 

 

 

The questioning takes days.

So much to go through. So many things. 

Did I know this?

Do I have proof Elrond knew that?

Am I sure Galadriel ordered this?

Can I show how this was done?

Why?

Whose idea?

Can I prove that?

On and on.

 

 

 

I am glad I am not trying to lie.

I used to be a good liar.

Not anymore.

I am too tired.

 

 

 

They bring me copies of the notes I gave him. All the sheets I wrote and put in that envelope.

Almost all.

We go through them, one by one.

I have to explain them, justify them, offer proof. Sign them as my writing, my truth.

I have to explain why I gave him my bank account details. That I was not trying to bribe him. In my naivety – how can I be naive? – it had not occurred to me. 

“I have no will,” I say, “I am an elf – it would be odd – noticeable – to make a will. I knew – there was a chance I would not – would not be alive to go to trial. In which case I wanted there to be someone who could access the money, use it somehow to – to make amends. In a small way.” I shrug, “I suppose it sounds silly. It seemed a good idea at the time. I don’t know why he didn’t destroy the paper if it was likely to cause him a problem – I didn’t think of that.”

And inside I think – he was quick enough to destroy the other sheet. 

I do not tell them about that one.

But the memory of it scalds me.

_I love you,_ I wrote, _I do not know your name, but I love you as I have never loved before, as I did not know it was possible to love. I care not that you are so different to me, I love you. I know you do not feel the same. I know there is no future in it. But I need to tell you somehow. I love you, and my life is better for it, whatever end lies before me._ In my madness, I even signed it.

I wonder what became of it.

Did he throw it away? Destroy it?

Or is it pinned up somewhere, in some policeman’s canteen, for all to see and laugh at? 

Is there perhaps a competition, among such undercover officers, for who can get the most such?

And yet – I am still glad I wrote it. 

I may never have been kissed with love, never been made love to, never received a love letter, or any romantic present but – at least I loved, and I told him.

 

 

 

We move on.

The – as Eomer calls it – incident with Haldir.

Why did I go with him?

What happened?

Am I sure that was Galadriel, not some other using her form?

Am I sure she knew what was happening to me?

When they spoke – did they speak of other such questionings directly?

What Haldir said of removing eartips, of bodies – do I have any proof? Any names?

They show me photos of what happened to me. They make me talk about it. Describe it.

“We must,” Aragorn explains, “you will have to speak of it in court, it is better to rehearse it.”

I suppose he is right.

They ask about the end – but I do not remember. I do not know. 

“I was not conscious,” I say, “I was not aware of Hal – letting go of me. I was not aware of any others in the room.”

They look at each other, the two officers, and Aragorn looks at me.

There is silence.

I do not know why.

“You would not recognise the officers?” Eomer asks slowly, and I – I look at him in fear.

“No,” I say, and my voice sounds strange to my own ears, “no, I would not. I – it was not you? I – it is bad enough to have the photos passed around, it was bad enough in the hospital that the staff knew – I could not bear – I would hope not to meet those officers.”

Eomer nods,  
“Yes. I thought you might feel that. It is not uncommon. I see no reason why you would have to meet them. It is possible it might be brought up at your trial, that the prosecution might wish to claim you lie, I suppose. But I think it unlikely we would need to bring the officers in, there are pictures enough of you, it is clear what has happened.”

He means it reassuringly.

He does not even guess at how his words hurt me.

After all, as he says, it is clear. I suppose he is showing that he does not think me a fool, I tell myself. 

He has no idea how hard it is to look in a mirror these days.

 

 

 

 

Time passes. 

I am kept – I think the phrase is ‘on remand’. It is safe, it is quiet, there are lights even at night. 

I tell myself this is a good time to catch up on reading all the novels I have never bothered to read.

Unfortunately, I am still not the elf to want to.

And my eye aches so.

I did not expect that. Apparently it is strained, compensating. 

I lie and dream.

I suppose that is something elves – this elf – are good at.

I suppose I should be glad I have that left to me.


	11. Legal Proceedings

I stand there in the witness box, and I answer, as best I can. 

Yes, that is what happened.

Yes, that is how the system worked.

Yes. I did that.

Yes I was paid.

Yes, this is the elf who paid me, who is named in these contracts, who organised it all.

Yes I believe he knowingly produced, supplied, sold, illegal drugs.

Yes he trafficked, or caused to be trafficked, hobbits.

Yes he took profit.

Yes he knew.

Yes his name is on these papers.

Yes I believe him to have been complicit in these murders.

And on, and on.

There are questions from his lawyers, but – all I do is repeat over and over again the truth. He did this. I knew. I always knew he ran this organisation. 

They do not question whether I knew about the hobbits. I suppose it makes little difference to him.

He looks at me at the end, and I know if he had the power I would be dead.

I know that one day he will have the power.

I shiver as I am led away.

 

 

They cannot tell me the outcome. I am not sure there has been a verdict yet, I am not sure if they wait until all the evidence in all the cases has been heard.

 

 

I am called upon as witness again.

She watches me as I speak, and I am grateful for the shield they have her behind, some dwarven technology, which keeps her voice from my mind. Her eyes on me are bad enough. I keep my gaze turned away.

Yes, that is what happened.

Yes, that is how the system worked.

Yes. I did that.

Yes I was paid.

Yes, this is the elf who paid me, who is named in these contracts, who organised it all.

Yes I believe she knowingly produced, supplied, sold, illegal weapons.

Yes she trafficked, or caused to be trafficked, hobbits.

Yes she took profit.

Yes she knew.

Yes her name is on these papers.

Yes I believe her to have been complicit in these murders.

And on, and on.

There are questions from her lawyers, but – all I do is repeat over and over again the truth. She did this. I knew. I always knew she ran this organisation. 

They do not question whether I knew about the hobbits. I suppose it makes little difference to her.

She looks at me at the end, and I know if she had the power I would be dead.

I know that one day she will have the power.

“Ci u-edhel,” she says, quietly, but I hear her, and I bow my head.

I know.

I know I am no longer an elf.

I am nothing.

I shiver as I am led away.

 

 

 

Again and again I go back to the witness box. I stand there, I tell the truth, over and over. 

At night I ask myself why I am doing this, why I am putting myself at risk – is it because I fear that if I do not, if I stop, I will not be protected? 

And I know it is not as simple as that. 

I need to tell. 

I need to know I have done this, stopped this, spoken out.

I will have something in my life right, something I can be proud of.

If there is a small part of me that whispers – surely he will come back to me when he sees how hard I am trying – I know it is a lie, and I do not listen.

I do not.

I will not believe a lie again.

 

 

 

They come for me one day, the officers who escort me to and from the courtrooms. I wonder why because Aragorn is not here, he has told me it will be several days before I am needed again, for my own hearing. Until now he has been allowed to accompany me.

They take me in, and I am led to the witness box, and sworn in.

I see why Aragorn is not with me. He is the defence lawyer.

He does not look as though things are going well.

I look at his client, Ada’s secretary. 

I wait.

The prosecution lawyer approaches me.

“Legolas Thranduilion,” she begins, “you need little introduction, your father’s company is clearly at fault in this matter. The issue is simple. In your statements to police, you have repeatedly stated you did not know hobbits were being trafficked, is that correct?”

“Yes,” I say, “it is correct. I did not know. I was allowed to believe it was merely another line of drugs. As far as I am aware, all who were not directly involved day to day believed this.”

She looks doubtful.

“Perhaps,” she says, “but what other people knew is not yours to tell. Now, you were the financial director of your father’s company, is that correct?”

“Yes.” I have learnt to be brief where I can.

“And so would have authority to sign a contract on his behalf?”

“Yes, in some circumstances,” I say, wondering where this is going.

“Who else would have that authority?”

I think.

“It would depend,” I say, “on the nature of the contract. In some circumstances, the head of personnel, H-H-Hal –“ I cannot say his full name, I cannot, I swallow and move on, “in others the head of maintenance, Galion, in others – “

She interrupts me,  
“Yes, thank you, I think we get the picture. And if the contract were to establish a new product line, a purchase agreement, a pricing agreement?”

I am thinking desperately, trying to see where this is going. 

“Myself, or – or his secretary.”

She waits. I say nothing.

“That would be Caradhil Finbonaurion?” she asks, finally, and I nod. 

“Yes.” I say, I have learnt to speak aloud for the court.

I look at him. He looks at me, and I see in the grief on his face the wreck I am become. I look at him, and I remember he taught me to write. He used to take me to practice with my bow when my parents were busy. 

His father died defending my eldest brother.

His mother died with mine.

I remember him taking his oath of allegiance, kneeling, his hands between those of my father’s as he pledged himself. I remember the words of the oath.

“To speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or in plenty, in peace or war, in living or in dying from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end.”

I have seen his eyes follow my father, and I know he is the most loyal elf.

“Thranduilion,” she says again, and I realise I am looking away from her, but she does not sound angry, she sounds as though she is trying to be kind, “then if you did not know of the hobbit-trafficking, the signature on this document must be that of Finbonaurion?”

Suddenly I understand.

If he signed this, then he knew. 

If he knew, he is guilty.

He knew. He is guilty. There is no doubt in my mind.

But – he is bound to my father, vassal to liege. He has served us these – I don’t know – two, three thousand years. His parents served us. These Men, they have no concept anymore of what that means. The old ways are forgotten by them, but we are still bound in honour.

Caradhil could no more go against my father, his liege lord, than he could fly.

And I remember the answering promise.

“I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance.”

Ada is not here.

The duty devolves to me.

I pull myself straight, and I look past the lawyer, I look at Caradhil. I see a faint twitch, very slight, quickly controlled, obedient to the will of Thranduilion as he has always been to Thranduil, even though he must long to speak, to prevent me, to protect the ernilen, as he always, always has – but I will do this. I am Thranduilion, with all that means, and I say,

“No. Finbonaurion did not know. I signed that. I knew.” She looks at me, and I continue, even as I see his eyes close, see the pain I am causing him – but I must do this, carefully, not racing my words, not sounding hesitant, “I cannot prove it. I can no longer hold a pen, I cannot produce a signature for you. But it will be signed ppThranduil, there will be other documents with the same mark, filed in my office, clearly mine, my comments on them.”

There is, I suppose, a slight risk, that an expert could see a difference. But I think it is unlikely. He taught me to write, he taught me to make that signature, over the years I have tried so hard to copy his style.

I will not let him be made a criminal for something he had no control over.

I see Aragorn’s face freeze over, and I wonder whether he knows I lie. I care not. I have no choice. I will not let my father’s most loyal elf be thrown into a prison with no protection from the Noldor.

The lawyer looks at me as I stand there, and says,  
“Doubtless this will be mentioned at your own trial. For now though, no more questions.” As I am led away, I see Caradhil with his head in his hands, and I wonder if I have done enough to free him.

 

 

 

After I am returned to my cell, I lie on my bed, wondering if I will ever be able to explain, whether Nairn will be able to understand. 

I do not know if dwarves have honour in this way.

Or will he just assume I lied to him?

Does it matter?

 

 

 

Later I am taken to the room where I meet with my lawyer. Aragorn is in a towering rage.

“I suppose you think that is funny?” he begins, and I raise my eyebrow.

“That poor elf, to go through all that simply because you were hoping to reduce your sentence. Poor bastard. He is home now, and likely to end up with all kinds of shit to deal with – he is probably going to be left with the whole sodding company to sort out, you realise, contracts to honour, legit business to dispose of, everything. And you make him spend weeks going through questioning and a trial, simply because you lied.”

Good. It worked.

I shrug, insouciant as ever,  
“I am a liar,” I say, “what did you expect?”

He growls, and kicks his case halfway across the room.

“Eomer isn’t happy either,” he says, “and I daresay your precious Officer X is feeling a right prick too. They’ve been saying you deserve a better deal because you didn’t know. You almost fucking swung that one. So now – now they look naive. Not a good look for a policeman, naive.”

No, I suppose not.

I keep my face calm, I hide behind my mask.

He will never forgive me this.

I tell myself it doesn’t matter, he never wanted me anyway. But it does matter, it does.

I cannot tell him, I realise. He is a policeman. He would reopen the whole thing. I would face perjury charges as well as all the rest. Caradhil would be found guilty of something, I am confident that the rule of double jeopardy would not apply if the acquittal was due to a lie.

I cannot betray one who is sworn to my family so.

Not even for my love.

I cannot.

I have precious little honour left, I am no longer an elf, but I am still Thranduilion. I will protect our elves as far as I can.

Something inside me aches as though I am breaking, and I wonder why. I know he lied to me, I know it all meant nothing to him, I know all this, and yet – I was so proud to be able to tell myself I had loved, I had been honest in this, the very thought of it kept me warm inside.

Now this is gone also.

Liar.

 

 

 

My own trial feels largely a formality.

Yes, I did this.

Yes I knew that.

Yes I am guilty.

Yes I did state that I did not know, when in fact I did. 

Yes I lied under oath.

Yes.

Aragorn puts up an outstanding effort, especially for one he now dislikes.

Yes I gave information.

Yes I have answered all the questions put to me.

Yes I have stated I wish to make amends.

Yes I did not leave the court before retracting my lie, I did not – apparently – fully commit perjury.

No I do not know where my father is, I cannot tell that.

Yes I helped the undercover officer as much as was in my power.

No I did not tell Haldir who the officer was.

Yes he hurt me to find out.

Apparently that is not relevant.

It feels relevant, I want to cry out, it feels relevant to me that I was promised I would be watched over, protected, and I was not. I was left in agony for hours. Look at what he did to me, I want to scream.

I do not.

I accept that I probably deserved it.

I stand silent. I answer only when I am asked a question.

I do not now hope for much.

There is no need for a jury, because I am not contesting. 

I am guilty.

I did this.

The judge asks me if I have anything else I wish to say before my sentence is decided.

I look at her.

“No.” I say. Because what else is there to say?

I could bring out the old lines. The lines I used to Nairn. I could speak of customs formed before the laws of Men. I could speak of the things Men have done, that I have seen. Of how once, once there was an empire which happily forced a country to buy the addictive drugs they produced in one conquered province so that the builders of empire could have their preferred hot beverage.

Of how once, once there was a power – a power that had only one rival – and to fight that rival, it paid others, others who took the money, grew the drugs, used them and the guns to destabilise the rival – and when the rival was gone – they turned on that power, biting the hand that had fed them.

Of how these weapons that I imported – are nothing compared to what anyone can buy in a store in other countries, weapons that are sold over the counter and kept in ordinary family homes, used for sport, and used, sometimes, in anger to wreak every bit as much death and destruction as these – evil – weapons made in the Wood. More. No training needed, no strength of arm, no years of practice. A child can use their weapons.

Of how laws change – they change so fast – of how what is illegal, prohibited one decade is legal the next.

Of how Men change so that today’s terrorist, who I should not sell to, is tomorrow’s politician, with whom I must break bread. And the other way about.

Of how once, long ago, Men were grateful for all that elves could teach them of beauty, of truth, of skill.

Of how once, once there was no legal or illegal – all drugs were seen as a gift from the gods, from the Valar, to be used and used well, mind-expanding.

Of how once, once, weapons were the calling of every Man of honour.

Of how once – not so very long ago to my mind – the Romans that these Men speak of with such respect, whose language gives the words of legality – those Romans had slaves, they bought and sold, whipped and branded with never a thought of compassion. Of how those Romans were not the last, nor the worst to act so.

Of all the other atrocities I have seen Men perform on their own kind, and explain away, and excuse, and go on to deny.

But all those things are gone, blown away on the winds of time, and elves – elves should change as the world changes.

I know this, I have always known this.

So what remains for me to say?

I am sorry. 

I was scared. 

They killed my brothers, my mother.

I had no choice.

Excuses. Nothing more.

As for mercy – I deserve none.

There is only one mercy I want.

I love him so. Let me see him one more time.

But I do not say it.

It is not as though anyone is going to listen.

Least of all him.

 

 

The sentence is clear.

I did this, these crimes, and so I will serve a long time.

Yet I informed, I enabled many arrests.

So I am given a certain remission.

Yet I am an elf.

Which means my sentence is increased.

The final tariff – I hear the numbers but they make no sense to me.

The only thing I understand is that – all those of the race of Men that I see around me will be dead long before I leave prison. I do not know about dwarves.

I do not know about him.

I do not know how old he is.

I do not know whether I will ever have chance to speak to him again.

And once more, I ask myself why does it matter, when I know he feels nothing for me? 

I cannot answer, but it does.

 

 

 

Before I am taken away, there is one more trial – no, not a trial, an investigation. The officer who shot Haldir. 

It is, apparently, normal firearms procedure. He fired a shot – shots – without a direct order from a commanding officer.

There will be a trial if the investigation decides he acted unlawfully.

The laws of Men make little sense at times.

He could – I can barely believe it, but Aragorn assures me it is so – he could be imprisoned for what he did.

At least, I assume it is a ‘he’. They do not tell me who, I believe it is normal to protect his identity.

Not that I would know any firearms officer, but from the media I suppose.

 

 

There will be a lawyer acting for Haldir’s family. I had no idea Haldir had a family, I cannot imagine it, a whole troop of little Haldirs – no, I remember Erestor speaking of brothers. I suppose for them, then.

I am brought in.

Yes I remember much of that day.

No I do not remember the actual shooting.

Is it possible the officer thought my life in danger?

Yes. Yes, I imagine he – or she – did. I was unconscious, I explain, I was bleeding, I was severely injured. Maimed. Crippled. I make myself use the words I hate. Look at me, I say, look at me. I lost an eye, fingers, teeth, nails, hair – little as that means to the not-elves – I am covered in a network of scars. I swallow, this is not easy to say, but I think of the officer who saved my life, and I think this is the only way I can repay her – or him – , I scoop back my hair as best I can, I show my ears, my ruined, mutilated ears. 

I look at those who sit in judgement.

Have you seen the photos, I ask. Have you read the doctors’ reports of how I nearly faded anyway? 

Yes, it is possible – more than possible – the officer thought my life in danger.

Did Haldir have a gun, they ask me.

I do not know, but I do not say this. There was a gun in those photos they showed me. Certainly I have seen Hal with a gun before now.

He had a gun with him, I say, whether he held it – I do not know. I was not, I explain calmly, in a position to look. He certainly had a knife, and he could certainly have cut my throat very easily and quickly. If the officer concerned says he held the gun, threatened them, then I am confident he did. It would be in character, he was never one to give up easily, never one to make a strategic retreat, I tell them, and I know I lie.

One thing about Hal, he was no fool. He would have had the sense to surrender, to stay alive, to wait.

I have thought about this, and I have wondered why Haldir was shot. I can only assume the officer thought he deserved it. I am not going to argue with that.

An officer of the law would not lie, I say.

And I do not let myself show the irony I feel as I state this, as I think of the officer of the law I love, who lied to me from first to last.

The lawyer for the family asks permission to question me. He is given it, and he walks too close to me. He is not Galadhrim as I expected. 

It is Erestor. He looks at me as though he never met me before, cold and scornful. Something is different about him – it takes me a moment to understand – his scent is familiar, he smells like Hal, and I wonder if he knows. Does he know how his presence is making me feel?

Weak, fearful, hopeless.

He smiles, and I know he does. He gestures, and I cannot but follow his hand.

Dear Eru.

They are there, two of them. As alike their dead brother as twins. 

They stare at me.

And I feel my courage drain away.

This is not the impersonal punishment, the anger I felt from Elrond, from Galadriel, this is – hatred. Hot and bitter, it will live as long as they do. They will not be satisfied with my death, they need my pain.

I look away.

And I am grateful I will be locked away from them for so long.

The lawyer, Erestor, speaks. I can hardly concentrate on what he is saying.

He is saying – he is actually trying to convince the court – or whatever this is – that I knew Haldir – well. That I – and I cannot believe what I am hearing – that I had been known to go with him. That I had consented – not to this, he does not claim that – but to lesser things. To the scars, the hair cutting. And so how could there have been reason to think my life in danger?

I stand there in silence, I am waiting for someone to laugh, to see how this could never be.

But he goes on, he speaks of my – my past. He speaks of what I have done before now. How I am known to be – he says, and it is news to me – a desperate homosexual. Prepared to experience anything. Prepared to do anything, for anyone. Prepared to allow anything. And so how could there be reason to think my life in danger?

Possibly he is also asking, why would anyone care?

I cannot speak, I am waiting for someone to break in, to question the relevance.

I look at my lawyer, but he is unable to meet my eye. 

So even he, even one who has spent time with me, can believe this of me. 

I realise that if he will not speak, perhaps I must. I have spent much time recently in courtrooms, I have learnt to defer always to the judge.

I do not shout at the lawyer, as I long to. I do not try to remind him of the hours we have spent in conference together. I do not ask him how much of the ornate jewellery he wears was paid for by fees from Ada. 

I certainly do not bother to mention that drunken confession of hopeless, unreturned love for one now dead. It is hardly relevant that he is also queer, but I wonder if that is why he hates me so. Because I did what he could not, I lived as he dared not.

I do not call out to those sitting in judgement on me. And why, why am I being judged? How did this happen? 

I turn to the – what is she – coroner.

“My lady,” I say, and I have to try again, my voice is a whisper, “my lady, please. This man defames me. I have never, ever, taken pleasure in any such matters as he speaks of. I find it hard to believe any do. I assure you, I would never, under any circumstances, have consented to – to Haldir touching me in any way. And I am confident you will not find one person who knew us both who would say otherwise.” I stop, and look at the coroner, she stares impassively at me, and – and gestures to the lawyer to continue.

He tilts his head, he approaches me again,

“So, you deny that you are in the habit of going to nightclubs in search of sex? You deny that you have regularly – regularly, I could, I am sure, find a list of people who would confirm this – had sex, oral and anal, in nightclubs, in roads near such clubs, with men – or elves – whose names you did not know, with whom you had no relationship? You deny that there was always a – frisson of sexual tension between you and Haldir?”

I cannot quite believe I am being asked to speak of such things. How the world changes. I bite my lip, and – I realise I no longer have ears that can flush in shame.

A fleeting thought crosses my mind that I hated the way my ears flushed, hated the way they signalled my interest, my desire. Oh how wrong I was. My ears. My ears that made me an elf.

I swallow, and I see that I must answer. Apparently this is not an unreasonable question. Set of questions.

“I do not deny your first points,” I say, “how could I? I daresay there may even be cctv footage.” And I am damn sure it would give you all a good show, I am bloody good, I think, better than you would ever be, Erestor, but I do not say it. I let the knowledge give me confidence though, and I think of Canadion, nearest I have had to a friend these many years, I think of how he would fake the smile, fake the laughs, night after night, and I try to hold up my head, to speak as I will wish afterwards I had spoken. “I did all those things, many times. I never, never involved anyone who was not in a position to choose. And I never took pleasure in pain, my own, or another’s. _But if I had, it would not matter._ I did not want Haldir, in any way, to touch me. I never would have. There was no sexual tension between us. I hated and feared him – and I was right to – he, he despised me and thought me foolish. I have no idea if he was gay or not. It does not matter. He did nothing sexual to me. He tortured me. And I most certainly did not consent to any of it.”

There is silence for a moment.

I wait, but at last, at last, Aragorn has woken and is on his feet, ready to end this. The other lawyer sees it, and shrugs lightly.

“Perhaps,” he says, and then, “no more questions.”

 

 

The investigation continues, but I may not stay and listen. I ask Aragorn to let me know – I find I need to know the outcome.

He says he will ensure I hear, but that I will likely not see him again. My cases, my part in all this is over, and he has others to help.

He will ensure I hear the outcome of all the trials. 

He nods once, and is about to walk away.

“Thank you,” I say, “I have no money, I cannot pay you. But I – I wish I had been given your wife’s choice. Not – not to love you – I do not mean that – but – I wish I had met someone who would have taken me away years ago.”

He looks at me, and I wonder what he is thinking.

“You never did?” he asks, and I – I look away.

“Oh I did,” I whisper, and I know not if he hears me, “I met someone. But he did not want to take me away. He lied, over and over, and so I lied, and so – so I am here, and I do not know where he is. I will never see him again, and if I did, he would not want me as I now am.”

Silence once more.

“I did not know,” I say suddenly, breaking the mood, “I did not know about the hobbits. I don’t know if Caradhil knew, but I had to protect him, he is my father’s sworn elf, do you see that? I did not know.”

I look at him again, and I see a certain understanding in his eyes, a certain relief.

“Do not tell me, I am no longer your lawyer, I would have to make such a statement public,” he says, “but – stay faithful to your honour. Do not become an oathbreaker, it will never help.”

My smile twists, as does his. We both know I have little – no – honour left.

He walks away.

 

 

Faithful to his word, I hear the verdicts – guilty. The sentences – long. Not quite forever, but – long.

Many times longer than mine.

I hear the outcome of the investigation. The officer is acquitted. There was sufficient reason for him – it was a him – to believe not only I but his colleagues and himself in danger.

They are the right outcomes.

I should rejoice.

Yet.

I wanted to see him – Nairn – my love – one more time.

I don’t understand why I can’t now.

There can only be one reason.

That he chooses it this way.

I tell myself it is better not. Better to remember what was, than to have to see his eyes slide away in contempt for my lies, disgust at my appearance. Pity. Dislike. 

I do not want to see any of that.

No.

It is better this way.

But – I loved him. I loved what I knew of him.

Little though that was.

 

 

 

I am to be moved to wherever it is I am to go.

But first – there is one more thing, apparently.

I am led to another room, and I wait.

Patiently.

It is not as though I have anything else to do.

 

 

 

I hear voices in the corridor – and – my heart leaps. Foolishly. But – I know that voice, I would know it anywhere.

I will see him again.

For an instant, I feel again like the puppy he called me, I want to bounce, I want to sing, he is coming, I will see him. He does care, a little. But – then I hear Eomer’s voice, and I know – Nairn is only here because Eomer promised me, and he is not one to break his word. 

The smile on my lips dies, and I remember what I am now.

Still. I will see him again.

I wish I could – I don’t know – fuss with my appearance. Tidy myself. But – there is not much to be done. Those days are gone.

This – this dingy little room – not a cell – but not much else – where I waited while the verdict was considered, while my sentence was decided – it is not where I would have had this moment be. But – in this as in so much else, I have no choice.

I am just grateful Eomer has remembered that conversation, has persuaded him.

They come in, speaking briefly to the guard. I hear a reassurance this won’t take long, that there will be no delay to the routine, and I know, I know the – whatever these vans are called – is coming, coming to take me to – wherever I am to spend these years. But now – now – for the first time – I can drink in the sight of him. I need not pretend any more.

He may not like it, but he must know how it is.

Eomer turns away, apparently absorbed in his phone,  
“I am not here,” he says, “I see nothing, hear nothing.”

I never knew it was possible to be so grateful to any man.

Nairn – if that is his name – cannot meet my eye. He stands, ill at ease, looking at his own feet – lovely feet, I remember – waiting. And oh, why does he have to wait, why make me speak? Surely he knows, he knows what I would ask, what I would say?

Apparently not.

“Eomer says you wanted speech with me,” he grinds out, eventually.

“Yes,” I say, and – all my prepared words fly out of my head – as everything has always flown out of my head when I look at him, “I – I find – I need – I need to know – was anything true? Your name? Your – everything you said about yourself? I – I am not asking for the truth, just – just to know – was it all lies? Because – because I have never – never – felt as I felt with you, never.”

There is silence, and I wonder what he is thinking. I swallow, I will not weep, but I will know this, I will speak as I have long wanted to,

“I am not – I know – I know there is nothing now. I know how I look, what has happened to me. I am not a fool. Just – tell me if there was ever anything more than – the job. Tell me if the jokes, the friendliness, the – oh tell me if those hours in my bed, that day, that drive, that lunch – did any of it – was any of it true? Tell me if you could ever have loved me as I love you.”

Eomer’s phone must be the most interesting phone in the world. I wonder what he is looking at, listening to. He too is a consummate actor, it seems.

Into the echoing silence, the silence that tells me all I need to know, the guard outside bangs on the door, once, and calls,  
“Time’s up, come on, car’s here.”

Suddenly, I remember something else.

“Eomer,” I say, and he turns to look at me, “please – Arod – my horse – will you – when they sell everything – can you – see he goes somewhere kind? It – whatever I have done – it is not his fault.”

And now, now my love – I will call him my love – in my own mind, this one last time, I will let myself use that word – he has found words for me,

“Fucks sake, elf, your horse? You can think of your bloody horse?”

I look at Eomer,   
“He is my responsibility. I would not fail him as well.”

Listen to what I am trying to say, Nairn, I think, please – listen – hear the words I can’t, daren’t, say. My father’s elf was my responsibility. I had to save him. I could not fail him. Please. Understand.

And I see in his face that he does not.

He just thinks – what does he think – he thinks I am some daft elf who cares more for his horse than for a whole race of people.

And I do not know how else to say it.

I dare not speak the truth – not to the two of them, the guard at the door, anyone walking past. I cannot betray a sworn elf.

Eomer seems to understand about horses – at any rate, he nods, and meets my eye, as he says,

“I will do my best. And – if they decide your father’s is also forfeit, I will see right done by him also.”

I nod, and biting my lip, I turn away. I cannot watch them walk away – I cannot watch him go. I hear the door open, I hear – I hear Eomer leave, and then – of all things most unexpected – there is a hand on my shoulder, and Nairn – is that his name, does it matter? – turns me round, pulls me to him and – and he kisses me.

Somewhere, I have the thought that I hope Eomer is blocking the door. Being seen thus by the guard will not, I think, make his life any easier, will not help his career. But – but I am only really able to think of what he is doing, and how good it feels, and – oh how I want it to never stop – how I have – ridiculous though it sounds – come home. He pulls back, and looks at me,

“That was no lie. My name – I could not give you my name. I – I am sorry. I give you my common name – I am called Gimli, Gloinson. A lot of it – too much maybe – was true. More perhaps from me than from you,” and his words cut me, and I long to throw myself at his feet, I long to tell him the truth, oh just once, to be true – but I cannot, I cannot, I will not break faith with one who has served Ada so well, so long, and I stand, in silence, as he swallows and continues, “I – oh elf – in another world, another time – I could have loved you so.” And there is regret and sorrow in his voice, but suddenly I – I am blazing like the sun with the joy of his touch, his words. 

“Thank you,” I whisper, and then, because it seems right, “I – I hope – you meet – someone. That all – goes well.”

He nods, realising he can hardly return the thought I suppose, and then, gently, he runs a finger down my cheek – the cheek below where my eye used to be – and says, 

“Still beautiful. Always.”

And he follows his – partner, colleague? – out, leaving me to – to begin the rest of my life.


	12. Watching the Trials

All this time, Eomer has been staunch.

He hasn’t asked what happened in that cellar.

He hasn’t asked how I feel about Las.

He’s been at Las’ side, as much as possible.

He’s come and told me how he is getting on. How he can move a bit now, how he is learning to cope with one eye, one hand – well, he keeps saying one hand even though he only lost two fingers – only? How can I say only? How he has spoken of covering his ears as the hair grows back. 

I keep thinking of him – poor sod – wearing tracksuit and hoody – because he can’t manage anything else. Las. Stylish, beautiful Las.

Poor bastard.

Eomer tells me he has been spending hours learning to do buttons. How he needs to be back in his own clothes – or near enough.

Looking away from me, he tells me – not Las, not anymore. Legolas.

I’m not sure I even knew that was his name.

He can’t bear the other – Hal used it.

Well. I will try, but it takes some getting used to.

Legolas.

Bloody stupid name.

Eomer tells me when he is up and about – when they start taking witness statements. He can’t talk about that.

He does tell me Las – Legolas – has refused the elven lawyer – gone with the legal aid guy, Telcontar.

That cheers me. He’s sticking to it then. Going clean.

If he doesn’t get too long – and he shouldn’t – Eomer has said that – said he is pushing for leniency too – Las didn’t know the worst – he was in fear – what happened to his brothers, his mother – he’s turned evidence – he shouldn’t get too long. We could be together – properly – I don’t know – in ten, twenty years? 

Not that long.

Not with letters, visits.

I’d stop this then.

Stop it now, if he wants.

Just – whatever he wants. Find something.

Be with him.

Somewhere.

And I let myself think about that. Years of being together. Sex. Lots of lovely sex with Las. 

Legolas.

Not just sex though, I’d like to – to hold his hand. Go out. Clubbing, I’d like to spend all evening dancing with him, kissing him, getting him really wound up – then take him home and spread him out – fuck him til he can’t think.

But – shit – I’d like to do other stuff too.

Go – well, maybe not back to that pub – but another one, like it. Sit in the sun, drink, and eat, talk and flirt – feed him pudding, see him laugh. Kiss.

Shag him silly later.

I don’t let myself think about my father’s reaction, any of the hassle. Just the good bits.

Hold him close, see him smile.

Buy him a coffee, and watch him suck the froth off a kit-kat.

Watch him, feel him suck me.

Take him out on my bike – I think he wanted that – I think I would like to have him clinging on behind me.

Not get in a car he’s driving.

Shit. 

I suppose the poor fucker won’t drive again.

Ok. So – I don’t know – help him. Do up his sodding buttons for him. Brush his hair over his poor little ears.

Fuck him so damn well he forgets it all.

Fall asleep with him – and wake up to him there, with me.

 

 

 

I build myself a nice little fantasy world.

And then – he knocks it down.

 

 

 

Fuck.

I hear him stand there in court and say,  
“Yes, I knew. I knew what was happening. I knew what the “product” was. I knew we were trafficking.”

I don’t know what to think.

I don’t know how to hide my pain. 

I haven’t seen him until now. I had thought – stupidly – that he is an elf – he would have – somehow – bounced back. Regrown hair – properly, not this horrible half-length – regrown nails fully, I thought he would move as he did, stand as he did, smile – oh dear Mahal – that smile is gone.

I had not realised how scarred he would be. I didn’t know elves scarred.

So I am reeling from that, even though I have seen the reports of the other trials, have read his evidence – and fuck that takes courage – to stand there in front of all those bastards and say ‘yes, they did this, and this, and this’ and know they will never forgive or forget. But I haven’t actually seen him until now – I’ve been kept away as much as possible, still under investigation. 

I wouldn’t be seeing this, but Bard – good, kind Bard – my friend Bard – has got the clip, and brought it – he knows I need to see it, react to it somewhere private.

He knows how I feel. 

He isn’t letting on, he doesn’t want to acknowledge it – thank fuck – but he knows. He saw what I did, and he is desperately trying to forget.

I don’t think we’ll be working together again – there’s no real trust left.

Once I’ve seen it, he nods, and he leaves me with my thoughts.

My thoughts.

The ache of pain at the way he looks, the fear in the way he holds himself, so different from that beautiful shimmering creature I watched.

But – I knew that, somewhere inside I knew he wouldn’t just get up and walk away – I wanted to think he could, but – no. And I didn’t care, it didn’t change how I felt – or only – only to a more protective love.

I was going to wait. However long it took, I was going to wait for him. 

Write to him, visit him, whatever I could do.

Be there when he comes out.

But if he knew, knew about the hobbits all along – then what am I believing in? What am I waiting for?

Now – now I feel – used. Deceived.

Lied to.

I thought – I don’t know what I thought there was or could be between us – but – I thought it was something worth trying for – and I believed him about that. That he still had some innocence left. I did. He was so sick, so ill, so horrified. 

Seemed it.

But if that was a lie – then I can’t believe anything he said or did. Oh, I believe the information he gave us – but now I wonder why. Was it just to save his own skin? So that we wouldn’t trace his father? Was that it? Or was there some kind of turf war?

Was he using me? All of us, all the weight of the law, just to increase his share of the profit?

Have I risked everything – my name, my career, my freedom even – to save, no not even to save, he was safe once we were there – to avenge the pain of – of another one of these lying, cold, immortal elves?

But then – why change his story now?

I don’t understand.

And I can’t ask him.

Fuck.

I have it bad.

I would like – would dearly like – to forget him, to walk away.

Only that isn’t an option right now.

 

 

Oh, I don’t have to see him, not face to face. All my evidence is given separately. 

Protecting my identity.

Thank fuck.

I don’t want any of those elves coming after me.

Actually, most of the time it doesn’t need to be statements from me anyway. Not with Las’ evidence, not with all the documents, the traces he gave us.

And of course Las – Las is pleading guilty.

I wish I could talk to him.

But I can’t.

Can’t let on how things are.

It wouldn’t do either of us any good – would only help the – what did he call them – the spiders.

Oh Las. I so wanted to love you.

What the fuck were you playing at?

 

 

 

But then – the investigation into my shooting of Haldir.

Fuck – why am I worrying about Las?

If this goes wrong – if it comes out – what I did – why I did it – I don’t want to think about the shit I will be in.

I – an armed police officer, upholder of the law, representative of justice – I shot an unarmed elf. 

Who had surrendered.

Who was not touching his hostage – had no way of hurting Las – or us.

I wasn’t defending anyone.

I wasn’t in fear for my life, another officer’s life, a member of the public’s life – I wasn’t even fearing for a criminal – my sweet criminal – Las.

I just wanted to hurt Hal for what he had done.

And – now I am lying to the court.

And expecting my colleagues – friends – to lie to the court as well.

I haven’t taken a bribe.

I haven’t beaten evidence out of someone.

But – if this ever – ever comes out – no-one will ever believe that again.

Everything I have done, every conviction I’ve gained – unsafe.

So the lying – it isn’t just because I don’t want to lose my job, my pension, my name.

It isn’t just because I really, really don’t want to end up in prison – the special bit of prison where corrupt police go.

It’s because I don’t want to see – Bard doesn’t want to see, Eothain doesn’t want to see – all those other convicted criminals walk free.

At least, that's how we’re all justifying it.

I’m not present for Las’ evidence, can’t be, but I watch it on the video-link. Allowed to do that.

See his injuries as he shows them off.

Hear him say, “an officer of the law would not lie”. Hear him speak of the gun Hal had, carried, used, would have used. Hear him speak of Hal’s character. Hear him speak of what Hal did, how he had a knife, could have cut his throat, but for the bullets which killed him first.

And I am not quite sure all of it rings true. 

I wonder how he knew about the gun – the gun that was behind him, that he didn’t – surely – see.

I wonder how he can claim to know what Hal would have done – he lost consciousness when Hal let go of him.

I think of the Hal I knew – the Hal Las spoke about – and the picture he is painting doesn’t sound the same.

I look at Las, and I see the most accomplished liar I ever met.

But it certainly all adds to the claim of reasonable force that my liberty depends on.

Hear the lawyer speak of all the things he has done, all but call him a slut who was asking for it.

It’s true. He did those things. And – a part of me – a part I am not proud of – hates to think of it. I don’t like the thought that I was not first in any way – and never will be. I don’t like to think how he learnt all his skills.

But – he is right. None of that matters here. 

The courage of him to stand there and say that. Say – yes, I did those things, I acted that way – so what? 

I don’t think I am that brave. Oh, I’m out – to my friends, to my father, to my colleagues – but – I don’t think I would want to stand before the whole world and admit to the most sordid parts of my own sexual history.

Oh Las. Oh my brave, brave elf.

Yes. 

My elf.

If only he could be.

And I find – it matters not to me that he lied. Lied to me or lied in court – it has occurred to me it could be either. If he is lying now, about Haldir, and I think he might be, he could have been lying before – I don’t know why, but maybe he has his reasons. I don’t know, and I never will.

But it matters not if he lies to others.

It matters not that he did those things, that he is – was – what people call ‘a slut’.

It matters only that he is Las. And I love him.

But I can’t tell him.

The sentence itself – so long, so very long – has seen to that.

Even if I have a chance to speak to him – what would be the point? He is an elf. He has so many years yet to live, so many years beyond those he will serve inside. How could I try to tie him to me, break his heart, for – a few brief years when he leaves prison?

I don’t even know he has a heart.

I think of that letter, that sweet letter, but – he lied. So often, about so much. I don’t know what the truth of him is.

“An officer of the law would not lie” he said. And I know, I know he knows, just how much I lied to him. But he still said that, still spoke like that, still – wanted to use every trick he knows to ensure the officer who killed Haldir is not disciplined.

I don’t know if he knows it was me – he doesn’t, he can’t. Eomer said not. 

Said Las had said he couldn’t bear to know, to meet those who saw him like that.

So I dare not tell him. Ever.

But then why would he try so hard?

Because – he understands enough to know that shooting Haldir like that could have meant so much trouble. Whoever it was that did it.

It could have.

I didn’t stop to think. Because it was Las – anyone else, I would have. I would have kept on the right side of the line. But – I love him.

And the thought warms me. I protected him then, I won’t let him down now.

I will go, as Eomer says he has asked for, see him, speak to him again.

Try and find out the truth of him.

And then – I don’t know.

But – I can’t just walk away.

 

 

 

Yet, in the end, that is exactly what I have to do.

“Still beautiful,” I say, “always.” And I let myself touch him one last time, let myself feel his skin, as I have let myself taste him again, let myself hold him. I see how – somehow – he glows, as though I have changed his miserable future.

But I haven’t.

I can’t.

So I walk away.

Wishing we lived in a different world, wishing we had had a chance of something more.

He says he loves me – but I don’t know him. I can’t even see him among all the lies. I want to, but I can’t.

He isn’t giving me any hope, any hint that – that the words he spoke to me were the truth, the words he spoke in court a lie. 

Too busy fussing about his fucking horse – his horse. 

Bloody elf.

I can’t throw my life away for nothing.

But more than that – he is an elf. To love a mortal – it would break his heart. If he has a heart.

I can’t risk that for nothing.

And that’s the truth of it – I don’t even know if I will still be alive when he leaves prison, so how can I tie him to me, or me to him?

I can’t.

I walk away, leaving him to his sentence.

I walk away, to begin mine. 

I walk away, back to life without him.

And the world seems grey.


	13. 100 Years of Solitude (or close enough)

The years pass.

Advantage of being an elf, I find, is that the years do seem to just – pass. I am not troublesome, so no-one seems to mind very much if I do not leave my room for days – no compulsory association time on this block. I have a window. They allow me to move my bed – I can sit and watch the stars.

Hours, days, pass.

I find comfort in memory, and – sometimes – in dreams. 

As he said, another world, another time.

Early on, Eomer is kind enough to send me word of Arod and Aras’ new home. They will stay together, they will be well.

I know they will be dead before there is any chance of my leaving this cell – Eomer too for that matter – but I do not greatly care. 

I hear – officially – that I have nothing. All I own is seized. 

What difference can it possibly make, I wonder?

From time to time, a new person is in charge, there is some kind of shake-up, someone sends for me, asks me if I will not take advantage of opportunities to study, to better myself. I point silently to my qualifications, and they cease extolling the virtues of GCSEs, or Open University. Instead they consider pastoral care – I believe that is the term – they ask if I do not wish to use the visitors’ passes, the letter forms. I explain there is none to visit me, none to write.

This is unusual, it seems.

I suppose – it would be pleasant. But – there is no-one.

Ada is still unable to return to the country. I assume. I have heard nothing from him.

Possibly he is dead.

Possibly he simply has no more patience for me.

Possibly I am no longer his son.

It matters not.

And, although I am not far from – wherever they ended up – I don’t think Thiriston will let Canadion come visiting. Fair enough, great overprotective oaf that he is.

I wouldn’t let Canadion within half a mile of a prison full of – presumably – sex-deprived men, if he were mine.

Nor, to be honest, can I see Canadion wishing to risk getting involved again.

I wasn’t that good a friend to him, to my shame.

There is no-one else.

There never was.

Only in dreams.

Oh Gimli.

Another world. Another time.

The years pass, and I let them, uncounted as I watch the stars from my window.

 

 

 

From time to time I am allowed net access. Restricted, of course, I cannot simply wander where I will.

Which is a shame.

For all my experience, for all my many memories – I would like to find some porn. Something different. Something – I find – I would like something that had a plot. A story. A – romance.

And hot sex.

I see Greenwood ltd become a plc. I see the new CEO – and I recognise him, I know him, Ada’s secretary – I see him stand up and say mistakes were made. Errors of judgement. A new way forward. Full co-operation. Any remaining unethical uses of company resources to be weeded out. But any innocent staff should not be penalised. Jobs will be preserved.

I wish him luck.

He will need it.

But – I see Eomer become Police Commissioner.

I see his obituary.

He has had a good life. Successful. Leaves children and a wife to mourn him.

I do not really absorb other news. It is hard to care about a world that seems happy to forget you, a world I do not really expect to rejoin.

Every so often, I search for Gimli’s name.

I never find anything.

I wonder if that was another lie.

I wonder if the kiss was a lie as well.

I tell myself not.

But I am not a good liar any more.

 

 

 

 

Then one day, a most officious hobbit comes bustling in. She introduces herself – she is, apparently, my case-officer. Whatever that means.

After much fluff, as hobbits, I gather, are prone to, she explains that she is here to discuss my ‘return to the outside world’. I did not know that many years had passed.

“Oh yes, yes indeed,” she seems to think she is bringing me good news, “not long now, not long at all. Have you thought what you will do – we do like to help you with your plans – we don’t want you spending that first night on the streets or getting lost or something dreadful, do we?”

I look at her, and wonder, what, exactly, she could think will happen that could possibly be more dreadful than that which brought me here?

I shrug.

“Come now, master elf,” she says, “have you friends, family? Someone to go to?”

I shake my head.

“O-k,” she says, slowly, and I feel a certain guilt, I am not making this easy for her, “what of – no, your home was seized wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say, dryly, “along with everything else.”

“Well, you will of course, have a certain amount of money due from your time here – oh – you don’t seem to have worked in here at all. Or done any recognised courses. Oh – that’s a shame. Still, there will be some money. Enough to tide you over. What about a job? Have you thought about that at all?”

I raise an eyebrow,

“Lobelia,” I say gently, “I was an accountant. I have just spent – a very long time – in here. I am, no doubt, out of date with current regulations. More importantly, I urge you to think about why I am in here. I lied. I cheated. I broke every fucking rule in the book, I think. Oh, except – I did not steal. But – I washed dirty money. Tax – not evaded – downright avoided. Did not complete returns accurately. Did not declare workers. Fucks sake, woman, I am in here for not just financial reasons – and I think they would be enough to ensure I never work again – but because for – decades – I imported contraband. Drugs. Weapons. And then – people. I allowed people to be used as slaves, I made it possible, and you ask me if I have given any thought to a job?” my voice is risen now, “what exactly do you think I have to offer anyone?”

I pause, but before she can gather her wits, continue,  
“No Lobelia, I would not employ me to – sweep a street. So I don’t expect anyone else to.”

She shuffles her paper in silence for a moment, then, and I admire her professionalism, says, as calmly as if I had replied with my usual economy of words,

“What then are your plans? How can I help you?” and then, and I will give her this, she has guts, “Are you even capable of looking after yourself – have you any need of physical help?”

“Do you know,” I say wonderingly, “that is the first time anyone has asked me that since I left the hospital? No, thank you, I don’t need help. I am as capable of looking after myself as I ever was.” I sigh, “I am not a hobbit, I am a spoiled elven princeling. I have never cooked or cleaned or washed or mended or gardened or whatever else you are thinking of, and I don’t suppose I will start now.”

She opens her mouth again, but I carry on,

“My plans – are very simple. I will either find some – man – who wishes to take me home, or I will not. How can you help me – I would not embarrass you by asking help with that – but – you could perhaps – is it possible for you to get me a map of this city? I – I do not even know where the nearest trees are.”

I mean – Doncaster. Fuck Elbereth, Doncaster. 

Never been so far north in my life, and I was quite happy that way. Probably won’t even be able to understand the fucking goblins out there. 

I want to go home. London.

But I can’t. I don’t have a home anymore. I threw it all away.

So.

I do so long to see trees again.

I did once wonder if there was some way I could work in – I don’t know – do prisons have gardens – or somesuch – but – I was told I was too much at risk. And besides – there was a look at my hand, my eye-socket – I was unlikely to have the required skills. Not that I did, anyway, I just hoped – that the reputation of elves would give me a few days before anyone realised just how useless I am.

Lobelia has flushed but she keeps doggedly on with her task,

“I can get you a map. I can get you a – guide – to nightclubs and suchlike. If that really is your plan. I will be back in a few days, with it, and also with all the details of the money you have, and so on. If you think of anything else, we can talk then. Try – try and think what other skills you have. There must be something.”

I shake my head,

“No, and you are kind to ignore it, but – I cannot drive, I cannot ride, I cannot ski, I cannot run – I cannot walk far, I cannot write, I cannot type fast, I can barely use a mouse, I struggle with touchscreen even. I – I can no longer use my bow,” and why, I wonder, does that hurt almost worse than anything else, “– I can probably still put a condom on with my mouth alone. I do not think any of the other things I used to do for pleasure will be of use to me now. But – I do appreciate your trying. Do not think I am not grateful. It is just – I have thrown all I had away and there is nothing left.”

She sighs, and stands to go. But as she leaves the room, she half-turns in the doorway, and speaks again,

“For what it is worth, among my people, you are remembered for your part in stopping what was happening, so do not value yourself so low.”

I am glad she is gone, that she does not see me cry.

Do not value yourself so low, she says. I do not think that hobbit I saw – that after who knows how long I finally saw – cleaning my office, bruised, scarred and limping – I do not think he remembered me so kindly.

Nor those who waited to hear from those little bloated corpses, rolling in the cold waters of the North Sea.

I did that.

And I will never be free of the guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to anyone Legolas has insulted.  
> (His views, not mine)


	14. Outside

Lobelia is, however, as good as her word, and some weeks hence I find myself outside the walls, with a map, and a guidebook, and some idea of how much money I have. 

And a warning regarding sexual health, and the laws about prostitution and soliciting.

How kind.

No, it is. She has listened to my words, and tried to help. I will listen to hers. I will ensure I have condoms, use them – and – and I have no intention of charging money. I just want someone to hold me.

They have given me my old clothes – which I daresay are not really suitable, but will have to do for now – but there is no cash. 

Apparently there is now no cash. There is instead this card. It does not need a number, it does not need a fingerprint – which is just as well really – it does not need anything much. Just me to carry it.

Apparently it will only work when held by the correct person. Something to do with bio-rhythms. Or something.

I do not understand.

Not really.

For the first time, I am forced to face just how long I have been in there. And I remember how much changed in that time before, and I am afraid.

I have lived through so many changes, so much new technology I have learnt, and then abandoned as obsolete.

But now I am crippled, maimed, now I have such poor vision, now – now I no longer feel like an elf.

And I am alone.

It feels cold out here.

And I admit to myself, that somewhere, deep inside, I had a longing, a dream, that there would be – someone to meet me.

Not Gimli. At least, I don’t think I was foolish enough to hope for him. I don’t know if he is even alive, or in this country, or – or married. I hope he is, I tell myself, I hope he is married or whatever, perhaps with children, happy, successful, but – I hope he remembers me sometimes.

Not Ada. He still cannot come to this country.

I know this.

But – I thought he might, just might, have sent someone.

Not Caradhil – he is busy, he has other responsibilities now. Neither Thranduil nor Thranduilion is there for our elves – I cannot expect their leader to come running after me. 

I am not an elfling any more.

I daresay if I were to turn up, he would be kind to me. But – is that what I really want?

No.

I want Ada.

I know he probably does not even wish to see me. 

He will know – I am sure he will know – what happened. And he will not understand why I yet live. How I live like this, not just crippled, not just maimed, but – barely an elf. He – he would expect me to have had the courage to end it years ago.

But I did not.

I – what did I hope? I hoped – I hoped for more – for – I try not to even think his name, he is not here, he does not care, it was all lies – but – I let myself – let myself read too many of the trashy novels in there. Well, I think, there was not much option. The thrillers, the combat stories – did not appeal.

Reading them was one thing. But – allowing myself to believe my life could be like one?

Lying to myself again.

Not anymore.

There is no-one coming. No-one has waited, thought of you.

No.

So, out on the town it is then, Legolas. Tonight.

What fun.

I shake myself, none of it matters. There is another option, one I did not discuss with that kind hobbit-lady. The option Ada expected me to have the courage to take years ago.

But first – trees.

I have waited this long. I will be among trees again.

It is not far. I am glad of that. I had not realised how much I would miss my perfect vision in walking across a town.

I wish I had a – some kind of walking stick. Something to hold, to lean on. They offered me one, years ago, but – it was hideous. Solid, practical, plain, with a rubber tip. I could not bear the thought of it.

I did not need it inside, I did not move much.

Now – now I wonder where one buys such things, and whether I can afford one. Then I shake myself a little. Don’t be ridiculous Legolas. No-one gets picked up carrying a stick. Not unless times and people have changed more than they ever did before. I will have to learn to manage.

Besides, I would only lose it. I am not good at keeping track of possessions – never needed to be. This little bag of – whatever basic clothing they have given me – I might manage not to lose – but I might not.

I miss – my brothers. I want my big brothers to look after me.

I want Ada.

But they are not here. I must manage alone.

Alone.

At least, until I can persuade someone I can pleasure them.

I had not realised how much has changed. I soon notice it is not just I, in my purblind state, that crosses with so much care, that looks for a crossing point, it is all the pedestrians. I wonder why. Have the laws tightened so much?

I see strange little – I do not know the word – flying things – zipping their way above the pavements, landing outside doors, leaving packages.

I do not understand this new world.

One thing does not change, I find. The pharmacy I enter – I know it is a pharmacy, the sign is the same as it ever was – Boots the chemists, still going strong, supplying such things since 1849, I am sure John Boot would be proud – and I am grateful for brand-loyalty that I can recognise it – is still organised as it ever was. Condoms are still labelled as family planning, and it still makes me smile inside, when I think how many I have used, and how I will never have a family, planned or otherwise.

Apparently shop staff still smirk when you buy them too.

Perhaps more when you are clearly – not very attractive. 

An understatement. I have looked in mirrors, I know how I am changed, but – surely – I am not hoping for much. Just some quick – exchange of intimacy. Pleasure. 

Surely I can still put my one remaining talent to use.

I pay, and that is odd, using this card, but I manage. I am quite proud of myself, in a quiet way.

And that makes me smile inside also. I, Londoner since before there was London, manage to communicate with northerners. I, who used to move hundreds of thousands around, am pleased to find I can complete a transaction for – what – such a small amount.

But then I, who once thought four or five k was barely enough to last a couple of weeks, have now – how much – she explained it carefully, but I cannot remember – I think she said best to think of it as a few hundreds, anyway, to live on each month. 

Divide by ten she said, to think of it like that, after all these years, inflation has been so steady this century. And I cannot help but wonder if that is partly because there are no longer the Lord and Lady driving up prices, entangling all the world in their webs.

A few hundreds.

I think.

I don’t really know.

I don’t know what food costs. I don’t know where I can afford to stay tonight. 

No wonder that nice hobbit lady looked so worried, was so insistent I take her card, that I have details of drop-in centres, where doubtless more nice kind – northern – hobbits will offer me help, and make me cringe with shame that I saw not what was under my nose all those years.

I had better stick to my plan.

Go and see trees.

Then – then find someone to take me home. I sigh. I am beginning to realise how optimistic that was. 

Slight change of plan then.

Find someone to – go down on. Fuck me up against a wall. Touch me, let me touch him. I am not feeling very fussy.

I never was.

I look at my map again, slowly tracing the line between where I am, where I think I am at least, and where I would like to go. It is not so very far, not really.

I used to run about ten times as far on a weekday morning, however hungover I was, however early I needed to be in work. Further at weekends.

I think I can walk it. Slowly.

I hope so.

I do not know how to catch a bus, I have never used such a thing in my life, and I know I cannot afford a taxi anymore. But one thing I do have.

Time.

And so, slowly, I make my way onwards.

Actually, this city is not so bad. It just – isn’t home.

I find the park.

A bench.

I sit.

If I close my eye, it is as though nothing has changed. The trees sound the same, the wind in the leaves, the song of green things growing. My hearing is not damaged. He did not take that from me.

I wonder if I have the courage to just – stay here. See the stars among the trees.

Give up.

No.

I will not do that.

I am Thranduilion, and I will see my Ada again.

I have lived this long, I can endure more.

 

 

I do not know how long I sit there.

It is wonderful.

 

 

And if there is a voice inside me that says – yes, it is wonderful, but – but is this all there is? A voice that cries out for more – for someone to share it with. 

Well. That voice has not been answered this long age.

Indeed, close though I once was to my brothers, my Naneth, my Ada – that love is not what this ache is for.

I remind myself that this ache has never been stilled, never will, that if I wanted love, I needed to make different choices long ago.

He could have loved me, in a different world. 

Hold on to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And if the distance from HMP Doncaster to the park is not quite accurate - then I can only say it must be one of many things which has changed........


	15. Finding

Bloody car beeping at me. Sod off. Want to sleep.

Spend too much time wanting to sleep these days, not so young anymore. Starting to pay for all the years of undercover work.

Not for years of midnight chases, daring raids, scars, injuries. 

No.

Nothing so dramatic.

I was bloody good. No need for any of that crap.

No.

Years of eating whatever was available, junk food, takeaways, canteen crap.

Years of smoking.

Years of drinking.

Years of not running, not going to the gym, not working out.

Fucks sake Gimli.

Just – accumulated years.

Anyway.

Car is beeping. Tell it to shut up.

Fuck.

Took longer than it should have. Hold-up on the bloody M1, delayed. Dark now, and still have to walk to – where?

Too late to just wait outside.

Fuck.

The one big romantic gesture of my life – and I am late.

Where will he have got to?

And now – now I wish I had done this officially. Called in a few favours. Had him taken aside, sat waiting.

But – that seemed unkind. 

And I wanted this to be just about us. 

Be honest, Gimli – I didn’t want to stir up any questions about the past. These things never really go away – there’s always some bugger looking to throw shit. Particularly elves.

Now I am late, and I don’t know where he is. 

Fuck.

Call up map on car screen, see if I can guess where to start looking.

Fuck, I don’t know.

Don’t bloody know him at all.

Don’t know this city either.

Then I see it. A park. Trees. Green things. Surely, that’s where to look first. Bloody car has got it right – parked right near.

Good.

Don’t know how far he can walk these days. Poor fucker.

Fucks sake Gimli, he is an elf. Probably in better shape than you are. Probably out on the pull already. Shagging his way through the whole gay scene in this town.

No. Maybe not. Not with those scars. 

Surely.

Still. Get out car, lock it, head towards park.

Bigger than I thought. Fuck, he could be anywhere. Don’t even know he is here. At least I know there was no-one else waiting. Bastard Thranduil said he wasn’t sending anyone else, and he knew there would be no-one – what was his word – untoward – waiting.

Don’t know how he knew.

Probably best not to ask.

Keep walking through park. Still trying to work out where he would be.

Then I see the sign.

PSE.

Very tasteful script, nothing too alarming. But – clear enough. I’m about to back away. Not my thing, never has been, not when it wasn’t legal, not now it is. But then I think – two male symbols next to the letters. 

Would he?

He might.

He just bloody might.

It isn’t as though I gave him a reason not to.

So I make myself keep walking. Probably look shifty as hell, clearly not at ease here, and I daren’t look around too much, relying on noticing him somehow.

No.

No elf.

Keep walking Gimli.

So I do, right through the area, and on round the park. 

No elf.

Back to the car, and look at the map again. But – I can’t see anywhere else that looks likely to me. Don’t know where else to start searching for him. 

Shit. Somehow I don’t think bastard Thranduil is going to be too impressed if I just put ‘return to sender’ on his envelope, just walk away. 

And anyway, I don’t want to. I want to find him again. 

Shit. I bang my fist on the dashboard in frustration, as thought that is going to help, and – for want of a better idea – get out, and start walking round the bloody park again.

Get to the sign again, and now – now I know I am going to look like some – dirty old man – going back to walk through again. But what else can I do? 

Have to hope no-one is going to be looking at me enough to care.

I don’t think I will find him. Almost given up.

Then I see a figure, curled onto a bench.

Something about the way he is sitting.

The way he is looking up at the stars.

I stop, just stop and look at him for a long moment.

In the twilight he looks – perfect.

Beautiful.

And I wonder who I am kidding to think this elf might want anything to do with me.

But I haven’t waited all these years, come all this way, spoken to his father, walked through this damn park, just to give up now.

I make myself go a bit closer.

He still doesn’t notice me.

Now, now I can see the missing eye, the hair carefully over his ears, the missing fingers on the hand clasped round his knees.

But at least he can sit like that now. He must move more easily than he did. And that he hasn’t noticed me – perhaps he is less scared than they said he was. 

So beautiful still.

And – I don’t care what he did. I don’t care about the lies. I don’t care that he has clearly used his first hours of freedom to – to go diving into bushes with strangers.

He is Las.

And I love him.

So I make myself walk closer, hold out my hand, 

“Las?” I say, and the word isn’t enough, but I don’t know how to say all that I want to. I don’t know how to say – I’m sorry. Forgive me. I am here. I love you. Let me hold you, come with me, let me try to make it up to you.

I don’t know how to say any of it. So when he flinches, and moves away, I stand there, a cold sickness inside, as I realise – he doesn’t want me. He never did.

I have waited all these years for nothing.


	16. In the Park

The trees sing.

I can sit here as long as I want.

It is spring, the song of all things green and growing is loud and joyous.

The stars are out early.

 

 

And soon enough – I find – this is _that_ sort of park.

It is dark, dark enough. I do not know what time it is, but – late enough that offices are finishing up, men – and I daresay women, but they do not concern me – are heading homewards.

Some – some have errands to run, some, I expect, go for a social drink with friends. But this park – this part of this park – this park which perhaps I did not pick quite by chance – men come here for something else.

I wait.

I have never been one to approach, if I can avoid it. I would always rather the illusion of being pursued.

 

 

And I find – this game has not changed. 

I find the different accent does not change the rules.

He comes to the bench, he sits beside me, he asks the time. When I say I do not have a watch, he grins, admits he does not care, and slides his hand up my leg.

I think he must come here regularly, he knows where to go, to be out of sight – save from those who will enjoy the view – he has even brought his preferred condoms. He does not wish to kiss, to pretend anything; he simply wants me to kneel.

Fortunately I can kneel. I relearnt that. I told the physiotherapist I was a devout catholic, it was important to me.

And so, with no tenderness, no affection, no names, here I am once more, kneeling before a man I know nothing of, pleasuring a stranger I will never meet again.

I keep my eye shut, he – he is good enough to keep his hands in my hair, stroking at me, and, I am grateful, he is not one to talk during.

I have lost none of my skill.

It need not take long, but I make it last long enough for me to feel – valued.

Afterwards, he takes my hand – my good hand, I keep the other out of reach – and pulls me to my feet.

“You alright?” he asks, and I wonder what he is offering for a moment – then realise – he would use his hand if I wanted. I am tempted, but – no. Not in the mood, I find. I shake my head, let him assume I have tended to my own needs, and – he walks away.

I return to my bench, and wonder how many times I will be approached tonight.

 

 

 

It is good to be desired again, even if only in this – meaningless – way, even if only in the dark.

But – it is still lonely.

It always was. 

There is, I find, a difference between being lonely because you have not met anyone you wish to be with, and being lonely because the one you long for, the one you long for – what?

Is not here.

Cares not.

Is dead?

Was created from lies, by your own imagination, your own lonely heart, and acted out by – a liar.

I still wish he was here, next to me.

 

 

 

I remind myself he was a dwarf. He would not have enjoyed the trees, the spring, the stars.

It does not help.

He might have. I daresay some dwarves do.

After all, Ada is an elf, but he loves jewels. I remember seeing him gift Naneth with them, long ago, when I was small, when – when I began to know that I would never look for a wife to gift in such a way, as my brothers talked of, that I – I would desire a husband to gift, and to gift me.

Stop that thought, Legolas. 

I am alive. 

Hal is dead.

Ada has not been imprisoned.

The Lord and the Lady are both put away for a very long time.

Many hobbits are alive, and free who might not have been.

Hold on to all of that.

 

 

 

Trees.

Stars.

Anonymous sex.

These things do not let you down.

 

 

 

I am curled into a corner of the bench, hands clasped around knees, watching the stars and listening to the night sounds of the trees, trying not to hear the night sounds of the city, trying not to think of the choice I must make soon, where to go looking for – some company. I am curled like this, when – a figure approaches me. 

Another one.

There have been – how many – three, I think – already.

Practice makes perfect I suppose.

I look up, as best I can, and oh I miss being able to see properly. I remember one of the doctors telling me that apart from judging speed, I probably can still see as well as most mortals. All I can think, is that if that is so, I am no longer surprised at the shortness of mortal tempers.

“Las?” he asks, and holds out his hand. But – I cannot take the hand, I cannot hear the voice, at first I can only hear the word, the name he calls me, and I – I wrap myself closer in my arms, hopelessly looking for protection even though I know there is no escape, not now, not here, not again, and again, and again, and I thought he was dead, they told me he was dead, but if he is not, if he is here, then it is going to start again, and I cannot, I cannot, I do not know what more he can do to me, and I want to cry out but I dare not, and it will happen, and I am so afraid.

After a moment, he sighs, and steps back, and my sense begins to return as I focus, best I can, as my eye begins to understand, not tall, not a few feet away, short, up close. Too close, and on the blind side, but – not an elf. A dwarf.

Him.

“Shit. I hadn’t thought – I didn’t know I was so very much changed. It has been a long while – long for a dwarf, perhaps not to an elf.” He looks at me, and then says, “You – you do know who I am, don’t you?”

I stay, motionless, trying to understand. I watch as he brings one hand up behind his back to scratch his head, and I know – I can see – his shirt is pulled up, untucked, and I remember, somewhere I know that once, once to see that inch of stomach was the highlight of my day. 

Mind you, there is slightly more stomach now. 

Legolas, it’s been a long while. Don’t be bitchy. You probably remembered wrong, made everything more perfect than it was.

Besides, look in a mirror. Don’t pretend you are still pretty, still attractive enough to find anyone to want you – except like this, in the dark.

Anyway. 

I wonder what he is doing here.

 

 

 

He sits, at the other end of the bench, carefully, slowly, as though he thinks I am a – squirrel – who might flee.

I cannot flee. I am still frozen.

“Las – Legolas – I – I thought – oh shit, this is going so horribly wrong. I knew it would be today – I made sure I knew. I – fuck, how many bloody years to plan this, and I still get it wrong.” He stops to breathe, and put his thoughts in order I suppose, and then begins again, “Legolas – oh shit – Eomer told me not to call you Las – I am sorry. It has been a long while. For me. I don’t know how time passes for you?”

I hear the question, and I manage to whisper a reply,  
“Slowly.”

He laughs, a little, as though he thinks I was joking,   
“Yes. I – I wanted to write. I did not dare. I – it would have cost me my job. But – I quit. I am here. I – can we try? I am sorry. Sorry I lied. Sorry I hurt you. Sorry – sorry we were so late getting to you. Sorry – above all, I am sorry I shot that bastard so quickly. I should have made him suffer, should have let you see him die.”

Oh.

I did not even know it was he that killed Hal.

I did not know he had seen that.

Knowing does not help.

That he saw me like that. It is just one more thing. One more thing in a list of shitty things that have happened, that mean we – if there could truly ever have been a ‘we’ – never had a chance.

So he – he was that firearms officer. 

But – that means he came. He did come for me.

I wonder if Aragorn knew. Eomer must have. And a hot wave of anger runs through me – why didn’t they tell me? Why? 

He came for me.

Eomer particularly. He knew how I felt about Gimli. Why not tell me?

That he rescued me – it would have been something to cling on to all these years. It would have kept me warm, given me – and how it shames me to admit it – given me something to build my rich fantasy life on. 

I remember saying “I would hope not to meet those officers.” But – surely – surely – he would have known that I would feel differently about Gimli?

If that is his name.

I swallow, I am trying to think what to say, trying to speak. And why am I so scared, I wonder? I spoke with him before, I was not scared then. I thought it was the end of everything then. I thought I had nothing to lose.

But if he is here now – I cannot stop hope rising in me – but at the same time – I know what I look like now, I know what I am now.

I look – ruined.

I am – ruined. 

I am not the pretty rich boy he liked once, so long ago, as it is to him. I am no longer pretty, no longer rich. I am not sharp or clever anymore. I have no fancy car, no perfect flat. 

I cannot imagine why he would want me.

I remind myself I have still one talent, and I wonder if that is what he hopes for.

 

 

I suppose he pities me.

He begins to speak again, his voice as gentle and soft as he can make it, his hand laid out on the bench between us, open and waiting for me to reach out, and I know he is treating me as a squirrel again, but – it is quite nice to be treated like that.

“I guessed you would come here. I suppose you have been here all day, with your trees. I meant to get here earlier, before it was dark. I am sorry. Bloody traffic. I – I had a long way to come. I am sorry. I meant to be here last night, stay over, be there for you when you came out. I didn’t want you to think there was no-one to meet you, no-one who cared. I am so, so sorry. I – I got a phone call yesterday. 

“I was going to tell you this later, more slowly, but – anyway. Your father phoned me. I don’t know how he knew where I was, I don’t think I want to know. I don’t know where he is. He said – he said he was having a package couriered to me. That’s why I had to wait. I don’t know why he couldn’t have been a bit more organised, done it earlier. Bloody elves. 

“Anyway. He – he said you didn’t know. About the hobbits. That that was a lie. For his elf, his sworn elf. I don’t understand how you could have let me believe that. Let me spend all these years thinking that was a lie, that you acted that fading, that desperation. 

“Anyway. Now, you have a choice. There is a job for you, your old job, more or less, you are free to work here now. But – he thought – he wondered – you might want a holiday first. That’s what I had to wait for. 

“Keys, I think, flight tickets. Passports, and I don’t want to know how he got them, in different names. Switzerland it says on the tickets. Trees and mountains I guess. And – he said – it was up to you how long you took. That he knew I wouldn’t want to come back with you working there – I don’t want to know – so – he can give you – as long as it takes.   
Charming. I suppose he means the rest of my life. Not long for elves. But – I love you. I think. I am here. I – fuck, Legolas, look at you, did you not get any help inside? No – I don’t know – post trauma counselling or something?”

I can’t process it all.

“Traffic?” I say, stupidly. 

He sighs, he is not patient, I remember suddenly, he never was. At least – he never seemed to be. What do I know of who, what he is?

“Yes, elf, traffic,” he says, “fucks sake, is that all you can say? What next? That I’m bloody late? That I look terrible? Always the sodding outside with you.”

The anger in his voice drives me back into my corner.

“Oh fuck,” he says, and hits the arm-rest by him, “I thought your father was optimistic. For me. I thought – I thought it has been too long. I am too old, too changed.” He fumbles in the bag I see he has by his side, “here, the envelope. Go to sodding Switzerland. See your trees. Then start working for your father again, just – bloody try and notice what you are getting in to this time.”

He holds the envelope out to me, and then, seeing I do not – cannot – reach to take it, puts it down between us. He stands, picks up his bag, and then, 

“But – Legolas – you do need help. Get some – whatever elves do to get over this – this kind of thing.” He looks at me again, and – suddenly I realise – he is going to go.

The only person I have ever wanted by my side, is here, and is about to go.

“No,” I manage, “no, please. Just – just – slower. I – help me. Please.”

He sits again. Waiting. I am back to being a squirrel.

I breathe, slowly. Trying to collect my thoughts.

“I – I never thought I would see you again. I thought – I didn’t even know you were alive. I – I haven’t heard anything from Ada. I didn’t even know he is alive. Not for sure. I – please. It has been a long while for me too. A long while – and – no. No-one offered me help. I didn’t know there was help. I – I didn’t really know I needed it. It – nothing unexpected happens in there. And – no-one called me – that.”

“Sorry. I should have known. Eomer told me. Just – I forgot. I – names don’t mean so much when you’ve had a few, work-wise. But – maybe you do need to be with elves. Not me.”

And suddenly, the fear his presence inspires is nothing, nothing compared to the thought he might go.

“No, please,” I say again, thinking, “I – I thought – I didn’t know who you were. For a moment.” And then I see his face, and I realise how that sounds. “No, listen. Not because – to look at you – I would have known you anywhere. But – you were on the wrong side. I cannot – I cannot see well.” I look at him, best I can – he is still on the wrong side of me, and that is not helping, “I only have one sodding eye, Gimli. I was afraid – but I – I can get better, I will, it’s just – you scared me. I didn’t expect – anyone. I – oh, fuck, Gimli, you used to be a police officer, didn’t you? You must know what it is like in there. I haven’t – haven’t been used to being with people. At all. Or talking even. I can’t think it all through.”

He laughs, and reaches his hand out again,

“Oh Legolas, you were never very coherent. I didn’t mean to scare you, I am sorry. That was stupid of me. And – I admit, I had forgotten that you were not in the main block. That you would have been alone so much. Stupid. Of me. But – this is not a very nice park, you know, come with me. It’s alright. Come in the car, we can talk a bit there. Go to the hotel. Flights – flights are tomorrow. Afternoon. Come on. I promise I won’t hurt you. Won’t do anything. Won’t touch you. Until you want me to. Come on.”

I am a squirrel again.

But – this time, I am a brave squirrel. I manage to take his hand, and – gently – he leads me out of the park, to his car.

He has to fasten my belt. I cannot understand this new system. 

And then – oh sweet Eru – what will they come up with next – the car drives itself. He enters – I don’t know, a postcode I suppose, and – and off it goes. I am petrified.

“It’s alright,” he says, reading my startled grip at the door, “not exactly a new thing. Been going a while. Relax.” He laughs, “Frankly, Legolas, it’s a damn sight safer than you ever were. I have never been so fucking scared in my life as that little jaunt out to your warehouse – were you still high?”

I look away.

“No,” I say, and then I add, without meaning to, “only on being with you.”

He reaches out in silence, and pats my leg,

“Oh my pretty puppy,” he says, but – I am not pretty. Not anymore. And I do not feel like a carefree puppy. 

I watch this strange land pass by the windows, this strange land where cars drive themselves, where there is no cash, where I do not understand the adverts, do not recognise most of the brands, where the one I loved so hopelessly pretends once again to care, where Ada sends a dwarf ex-cop to find me – who knows what else is changed? 

I do not let the tears fall.

Lobelia was right, I think, I do need a lot of help, out here.

 

 

 

Despite his words, we do not really talk in the car. At least, I do not. He – he tells me a bit about his life, these last – however many years. Nothing much, just – gentle things. That he has a niece and nephew, who he is fond of, but they are grown now. That his parents are dead. That – that he loved his job, but is too old. That he has no plans now. 

Beyond finding me.

That he does not know much about elves.


	17. Driving

I keep up as much of a flow of amiable chat as I can, letting the car take us to this hotel, but all the time – I am thinking – fuck. I had no idea things were so bad. I didn’t know. 

Oh I knew the injuries – but – maybe I didn’t take it all in. I didn’t realise how damaged he would be.

He didn’t seem it in court, didn’t seem it that last time I saw him.

Now I realise he must have been holding it together desperately. Now I realise how long the years must have seemed to him, and now – now I feel guilt that I did nothing. I tell myself, as I have told him, I couldn’t write, couldn’t contact him, but – I know in my heart it is a lie.

I could have. Oh I would have lost my job, had to leave, to start again, but I could have. I chose not to, I chose to put the job first.

I tell myself I might have – if he hadn’t lied in court – hadn’t said he knew about the trafficking. But – I didn’t ask him. I didn’t give him chance to explain.

It occurs to me to wonder if he told Telcontar the truth. He might have, him being a lawyer – and the arrogant bastard wouldn’t have been able to tell me – but if I had asked him, made it clear why I wanted to know – he was a canny one, he’d’ve found a way to let on, without risking a retrial.

I think all this, and I fall silent. I don’t think he’s listening anyway. Too shocked by what he can see of this new world he finds himself in. 

I don’t know what shocks him, but I suppose there must be many changes. I can’t tell.

He couldn’t do his own seatbelt. 

He looks so – lost.

Poor bloody elf.

 

 

Suddenly he speaks.

“Your name. I still don’t know even your name.”

I look at him, confused, 

“I told you,” I say, I know I did, “Gimli, Gloinson.”

He looks away, and I wonder what he is thinking, I see his fist – such of it as there now is – clench on itself, and then,

“Don’t. Don’t fucking lie anymore. I can’t bear it. That isn’t your name. There is no-one by that name. Do you think I haven’t looked online? Searched for you? Searched for something to tell me if you were alive? Married? Anything? Don’t fucking lie to me.”

Shit. 

I never thought of that.

“It is my name,” I say, “thing about my job – is security. Too much risk. They do a blanket net-wipe. I don’t know how, some tech thing. Sorry. Never thought about that. I am alive, I’m not married, never have been. I never thought you’d be looking.”

Something in his face twists, and I wonder what he is thinking, but he doesn’t speak, just stares out at the passing darkness.

There is silence for a while.

Then he says, quietly,

“Oh, I looked. As often as I could. And all I could think was that was a lie as well. So all of it must have been.”

“No,” I say, and I want to reach out, want to hold him again – but it’s the bad hand next to me, and when I try – he flinches away.

Shit.

Poor bloody elf.


	18. Hotel

The hotel is – a hotel. Faceless, standard, ordinary, cheap, and a bit manky – so I would once have said. Now – it terrifies me. I cling to his hand, the hand I was so scared to take an hour ago, as he checks us in, orders a late breakfast, leads me to the room.

Oh Eru. There is only one bed.

Does he truly want me?

Or – and I hate myself for wondering, but I cannot prevent the thought – Ada loves me, Ada is no fool, Ada would do anything to see me smile – has he bought him? With promises of money, of luxury, or with – I do not know – some long-ago indiscretion? 

How can I ever know?

 

 

 

Some of it must show in my face, because he puts his bags down, and turns to me.

“Beloved,” he says, and I – I can feel my face light up at the word, even if it is a lie, it is a good lie, it is a lie I have so longed to hear, “yes, you are. Come here. And stop – stop worrying. I told you. I’m not going to hurt you. What has you so scared?”

I don’t know what to say. 

He takes my hands in his, and pulls me over to the bed, sits us down on it, and – and that is all.

“Up to you, now,” he says, looking at me, “Up to you. But – I don’t quite understand. Last time I saw you – and I know it is a long while ago – but – you were keen enough to kiss me then.”

I bite my lip.

“Are you – truly – here because you want to be?” I ask, and in his face, his complete bewilderment, I see the answer. “Sorry,” I say, “I just – I don’t know how to be, how to respond. I wasn’t expecting – I had no idea.”

He looks at the floor, thinking, I suppose, and then he looks at me,

“No, it’s a fair question. I hate you needing to ask, but – I have lied to you over and over. I had no choice, but I don’t know if you can see that. So – yes, I am here because I want to be. All through the years, I have kept a watch on your record, had a look-out posted on it. That I needed to know if you were transferred or any odd visits, calls, anything, that I would be informed of your release date.” 

Without meaning to, I move, I don’t know why, I just – to know that he has been watching. I suppose it is caring, but – it feels – creepy.

He sees my movement, and shrugs, reading it,

“Yes, I suppose it sounds odd. But – look at it the other way. I lied to you, I caused you a lot of grief. You know – I assume – people with guns. It isn’t unusual for me to have some kind of watch on someone I’ve helped put away. Just – with you – it was a bit different. Not to anyone else, I don’t mean that, but to me – it felt different. Sorry. I suppose it is a bit odd. A lot of my life has been a bit odd, I don’t notice anymore.”

I smile, ruefully.

“Really? Do tell.” I say, and he smiles back, a fleeting connection, then he is staring at the floor again. 

“I’ll go, if that’s what you want,” he says, “or – I’ll help you with the flight, get you to this place, then – see what you want. I owe you that. But – I know I lied to you – and I think you lied to me to begin with. But – some of it was real. I’d like to try. And – I thought you would.”

I am silent.

I do not know.

I want – oh I want – as I have wanted for so long. But at the same time I am scared.

I am not the elf he remembers.

He is not the dwarf I thought I knew.

How can this ever work?

 

 

I don’t know if it can.

I don’t know – but if he leaves, if I send him away – then it will be over. Over without really beginning.

Over without a chance.

Surely – surely we deserve a chance?

But I don’t know if I am brave enough.

 

 

 

He sighs,   
“I am too late, aren’t I?” he says, “I should have spoken – written – found some way – earlier.”

I shrug,  
“How could you have done? I – I should have tried harder. I should have – been more honest. That day. On the beach. I should never have acted so – stupidly. You were trying – but I did not see. I was afraid. And then – there was never another chance.”

“I was trying,” he agrees, “but – I should have seen that it was impossible for you to answer any other way. For what it’s worth – I don’t think marriage is for fools. I like the idea of One. I always have. Just – never found him. Unless – unless it’s you. And now I sound hopelessly romantic, and foolish. Maybe I was right. We missed our chance, in another world, another time it could have worked. Here, now, it can’t.”

Maybe, but – but I want it to. I want it to be alright. I want – oh I want him.

“Don’t give up without trying,” I say, and – brave little squirrel that I am – I lean towards him. And – his kiss is so sweet.

He is so gentle.

I wonder how I could have thought it would be – like before. Now – now there is none of that urgent wanting, none of that desperation, at least – at least – he does not seem to feel it, and I – I am too afraid of rejection to show how I feel. 

How I want, how I have longed for this. Over and over, I have thought how it would be, were we together again. How it should have been, had there been no lies.

In my dreams, my thoughts, it was not like this.

So gentle, so – kind.

I suppose this is how it must be now. This is what he thinks I need.

Perhaps it is what I need. But – is there truly nothing of me left? Nothing to make him gasp, and move, and – and run his hands over me, wanting, stripping me, nothing to make him move on, and bite, and – push me down, nothing to make him wish to have me?

Now I know I am not as I was once, and something in me howls in grief. But I do not show it, I will not, I will follow his lead, this can be as he wishes.

After all, I should be grateful he is here at all.

 

 

 

It is not as it was, not as it would have been had there not been all the years, all the pain. But – we sit for – hours – I think – just holding hands, and kissing, and talking. Gently. Nothing, everything.

Beginning to know each other. Sorting out the truth from all the lies.

“I tried to tell you, I tried to tell you I lied in court, not to you,” I say, “I did – I tried – I – did you really think I cared only about my horse? I said – he was my responsibility. I thought – I thought dwarves might understand honour – I knew Eomer – any Man would not – I thought that might be a safe way of saying it.”

He looks down at our hands, my good hand wrapped in his – I am still hiding the bad one – I cannot quite believe him when he says it matters not – and I realise that he is colouring up a little,

“Sorry,” he says, “fuck, I am sorry. Yes. I just heard – some daft sodding elf – silly little rich boy – twittering about his horse. I should have asked. Eomer – he was a good bloke – he wouldn’t have – well, I suppose he would have had to. Oh shit, I don’t know. Stupid of us. Stupid, stupid fuckers.”

I cannot help it. I laugh.

He looks at me now, his brow crinkling in anger, and I say,

“I said that before. That morning – when we began to realise the mess we had got ourselves into. Now you’re saying it. I – I don’t know. It made me laugh. Sorry.” Please don’t be angry, I think, not now, not now. Later, tomorrow, but – not tonight. 

Please.

He smiles, and I breathe again.

And on it goes, halting, stumbling, trying to find our way through all the lies, all the confusion. Trying not to hurt each other any more. Trying to be honest.

He is probably right, we probably should do this. Jumping into bed without talking was part of what went wrong last time. Letting all else be forgotten for the sake of – some of the best sex I ever had.

Much more sensible to sit and talk first.

But it hurts that he does not even seem to notice the difference.

Suddenly I realise how late it must be.

“Are you not hungry?” I say, and years of staying in hotels make me ask without thinking, “room service will do – I don’t know – steak baguette or something?”

He shakes his head,

“Even here it would only be fucking lab-grown. No proper meat hardly now – not economically fucking viable or some crap. That and sodding animal rights wankers.” He looks at me, and must see I have no idea what he means, “oh never mind. But – no. I am not hungry, bit beyond that now, Legolas – fucking knackered though.” and then, “Do you ever bloody sleep?” he asks, and I laugh. Of all the things he could say, this was not what I expected.

“Not much, no,” I answer, and I think – I think I will not say that when I do the nightmares sometimes come back. Not now. I will tell him – how could I not – but, maybe not now. “I am an elf, we don’t much. I – I have gone for months, years without. But – that was when I was buying coke. Not starting that again.” I look at him, “I hardly can, if I am to be – with you – you would lose your pension.”

“No,” he says, and frowns, “no, it is legal. Did you not know? Has been for a while. They gave up the battle. Highly taxed, highly regulated. Pays for the fucking NHS I believe. Something had to once smoking became so impossible, so fucking expensive, so fucking restricted. Even _I_ don’t anymore. I miss that. So – tobacco revenue down, a whole lot of other substances up. Can’t say I really like it, but there we are. You live in a democracy, you put up with the changes people want.” He looks at me again, hesitates, and then, “But – Legolas – I don’t know how much money you have. These things are pricey. I – I am not rich. Doing alright, don’t get me wrong, but – not in the league you were in. And I’m guessing you only have the dole? Not a lot.”

Now it is my turn to look embarrassed, to barely meet his eye, “I don’t know. I – I didn’t take in what she said. The – I don’t know – officer – who tried to explain it all. I think she gave me a letter with it all in. But – Ada – somehow I doubt he is without money –“

He glares, and I am reminded how little I know him.

“Fuck off, elf, I am not living off your father, and nor are you, if we are together. A holiday, a few treats – like this hotel – fucking hell its posh – but – very well. He owes you. But – no. We pay our own way, best we can. If you can’t deal with that, then we’re through.”

This is the famed pride of dwarves, I suppose.

And I think – this hotel – posh? For all I was frightened when we walked in, for all it is so intimidating, the room so large – I thought it was cheap. And manky.

And I realise how protected my life always was. 

How far I have fallen.

Yet – I am not here alone. I am not here with some anonymous pick-up. I am here with one who – who just may love me. One who I have dreamed of so long.

Maybe I have risen, not fallen.

I nod.

“Actually,” I tell him, my hand – my good hand – still stroking his, as I have been for hours, in a way I never touched another before, “that is pretty much all he ever gave any of us. Jobs, yes. And well-paid. But – otherwise, gifts, treats only. Expensive, but – he never supported any of us. He is not like that. He – he is a loving father, but not – not soft.”

He grunts.

I continue, seeing there is no more to come,

“So. No drugs, legal or otherwise. What else need we agree on?” I think, what do I know of him? “I – I never lived with anyone before. I don’t know what else we might need to think about.”

He laughs, almost – bitterly – and I don’t know why until he says,

“I am no Man, to give affection many times, or pretend it where it is not. I told you, I’ve only lived with family, with mates. I don’t know what we’re going to argue over. I suppose we just have to wait and see. But – maybe – we should agree – to talk about – stuff. Not pretend, hide it.”

I nod, that makes sense. Then I say, hiding my face in his shoulder,

“And – Gimli – I am not – very used to tidying, all that sort of thing.” After all, until I was imprisoned, I never lifted a finger to care for myself in my life, and it was easy to be tidy when I had nothing. I am not even going to think about cleaning, cooking, and other such hobbit-things. “And I – I can’t always manage things now. I will try, but – help me.”

He holds me. 

For a long moment he is silent, and I am afraid. Afraid that I have faced him with my ruined state too bluntly. Afraid he will walk away in disgust, and I curse my foolishness that I did not let myself have one night of happiness first. Then,

“Oh Legolas.” And I hear a break in his voice, “yes. I know. I am sorry. I – I can’t make it better. I suppose – your Ada – he might have the money – sometimes these things can be – not healed but – made better.”

I shake my head, still hiding.

“They told me in the hospital. Too many nerve endings damaged. Too long without treatment. And – elves are difficult apparently. Because we heal well, we don’t take treatment well, I think. Or something. I suppose that may have changed. But I don’t want to be apart from you for a while.”

His grip tightens, and I understand his meaning. He doesn’t want to let me go either. 

It is wonderful.

 

 

We stay like that, for a while, then he shifts, and I remember he said he was tired. I pull away, allow him to move onto the bed more fully, to lie down. Hesitantly, not sure if this is allowed, I lie also, but – I find I still dare not reach out, I am so – so unsure. He has spoken of love, of affection, of guilt. He has held me in the most comforting, protecting embrace. 

He has not appeared to want anything else.

I suppose I am so – ruined. And I cannot blame him that he feels no desire for me. Yet – I ache inside. I would like – very, very much like – to make love. 

Or just – fuck.

Even if he were to close his eyes, and remember me as I was, not look at me as I am. I would not blame him. 

I don’t want to hear the whisper in my head – Hal’s whisper, Hal’s voice – that says – _he doesn’t want you, no-one wants you, not after what I did, you’re mine now, always; your precious Ada can buy you his company, his time, his pity – but he still doesn’t want you_.

“There will be time for you to think about surgery,” he breaks into my thoughts, “and I suppose – the longer you leave it, the better techniques they will have.”

I suppose he means after he dies, but – I am not thinking about that.

“I have no desire to. I – all I want – is – to be with you. To – see trees again. I – I would like to know all is well with Ada, but – if you don’t want me to go to him – I won’t. He will understand. He – he has always understood,” I shrug, “in one thing I am lucky. I have a good and loving father.”

I see something in his face, and I can guess his thought,

“Yes, even if he hasn’t contacted me. He would have sent someone. If you had not been going to come. But – you are tired. I am sorry, I forgot. I will be quiet.”

And now he laughs,

“Oh you are daft. Yes. I am tired. Too tired for anything else,” he rolls to face me, and I am glad that lying on my side I still have vision as I look at him. “I want this to work,” he says again, and he takes my good hand, and holds it close.

He is asleep in moments.

“I want it too,” I whisper, “I love you.”

At least, I think I do. 

 

 

The room is not dark, even when the lights are out. I am glad of that. For all I have learnt to love the dark behind my eyelid, I do not like not to be able to see anyone I hear approaching – see as well as I now can, that is. 

I like to be able to look and see that no-one is approaching.

Bizarrely, it is nice when he is asleep. To be able to watch him. Know he trusts me. 

He is changed. Older. Sterner. Heavier. His face more lined. His hair streaked now with grey. I realise his life has not been easy, these years. I wonder about the bits he hasn’t told me. I wonder how it was for him. How it was for everyone to know – I suppose they knew – that he had slept with me. That – that I did what I did – I betrayed my – my life – because I loved him. Not only, _I_ know that, _I_ know there were other things, more important, the guilt, the horror, but – I don’t suppose many people saw that. I don’t suppose many people wanted to believe I didn’t know what I was doing. I wonder how it was for him to work surrounded by people who thought he had – I suppose – used – sex – to get the job done. That can’t have been easy. I wonder what his family thought. About me. An elf. And since then he – I do not suppose he has been alone all this time. Not every night. I am not sure I want to know. Not yet. There must have been – men? I don’t know. No relationships, he said, but casual? I suppose so. I don’t even know that. I am beginning to know him, and much – much is still as I remember. Much is different. Still so many lies to find our way through. But – something is the same in him. 

He came for me.

Twice.

Late. But – he came.

He does want me.

He does.

I lie and look at him, and I want – I so want – to reach out. To touch him, to take his hand. Maybe kiss. Maybe – maybe more. 

Perhaps in the morning.

For now, it is good just to lie beside him, watching his face in the starlight.

Learning him.


	19. Midnight

I wake once in the night – only once, I truly am knackered – and even as I think it, even as I stumble to the bathroom, I know that is another change the years have brought me – and I wonder if he will notice that as well.

He is – not asleep – in his elvish, what is it – reverie. Bloody weird state. Eye open, but there’s no-one at home. Gives me the chance to look at him again, not too much, don’t know how aware he is, but – poor fucking bastard. In his rest he has moved, and I can see the ears. The eye and the hand – fuck it must have hurt – but, although they slow him down, make life difficult, they don’t actually look so bad. Just – missing. The ears though. Oh sweet Durin. I don’t understand how an elf could do that to another – be like shaving a dwarf, like waxing a hobbit’s toes – except that hair grows back. 

And I remember his hair – that was taken, and the nails – but they grew back. 

I don’t know what would be the same as taking an elf’s ears. Not taken, of course, just – mutilated. 

It occurs to me to wonder how long until he trusts me enough to show me those poor ears. I remember touching them, that night, and how he shivered, how it was clearly so wonderful a sensation, how he tightened round me and moaned as I stroked them.

I remember stroking one ear, trying to comfort him, as he sat there on the floor, after he had puked his guts out, when he knew what he had done, how desolate he was, how he looked up at me, how touching his ear then seemed to mean something else – and how – despite everything – how happy he looked, just for a moment.

Poor bastard.

Whatever the whole ear thing is – and whatever he has done over the years – he didn’t deserve to have it ripped away from him like that.

For all my first reaction was to see his beauty, to see how easily he sat – I have already seen – he is so damaged, so hurt, so slow to move, so much pain still there. Part of me wonders if there is more healing that could be done, or if – I don’t know much about elves – but – I think their – what is the word – fea – is more involved in physical healing. So – that he hasn’t healed well – is that the guilt, or is that – because I didn’t write to him?

Need I feel guilty for that?

Fucks sake, Gimli. Of course you should feel guilty. You have treated him like shit, and he still – still – forgives you, wants you. Still his only worry is that – and how crap do I feel that he asked – that I might be here because his father has paid me.

Shit.

He really thinks I have no honour. And I can’t blame him, only feel ashamed of how I have ignored him all these years.

Fuck.

I love him though. I do, I know that now. I won’t leave him again.

And maybe we don’t have long, but – it’s better than nothing. 

Surely.

I look at him, and he is so beautiful, so lovely, despite everything, and – I know now, he didn’t go to that bit of the park on purpose – of course, I had forgotten – how could he? Such places were still not legal last time he was at liberty, the sign meant nothing to him, and when I told him – PSE – Public Sex Environment – he laughed and laughed. He is beautiful when he laughs. 

Still, deliberately or not – I saw the condom wrapper in his pocket, I saw the opened pack. But – he admitted it – no, I didn’t even have to ask. He told me. Not proudly, but – refusing to be ashamed, I think.

And he doesn’t need to be. 

It’s not something I would do, not like that, but – I gave him no reason not to.

And if he can forgive me that, how can I even let myself think there might be something there to forgive?

He is still beautiful, still perfect in my eyes.

Whatever he has done, always.

Lying in the bed now, wishing he was too, not just outside the covers, but properly. I would like – very much like – to hold him. 

Be honest, Gimli. I’d like to fuck him. Wanted to since I found him. Mahal, but I wanted him, right then, right there, bent over the sodding bench, but – it doesn’t seem right. 

Poor bastard is so hurt.

I feel I should be kind, gentle.

When what I really want is to have him use his clever mouth on me – his mouth that has featured in my fantasies since the first time I saw him suck the cappuccino froth off half a kit-kat – fuck, I wonder if he still looks so good doing that, can he still put a condom on with his mouth – and then – turn him over and fuck him. Claim him. Make him mine.

Sounds awful. 

And I think it is probably the last thing he needs right now.

And, if I am honest, these days – I am not sure – not quite sure – that performance would match up to desire.

So, I just lie here, waiting for sleep to return, enjoying the closeness. Maybe in the morning – maybe we’ll manage more than just the hand-holding, and gentle kisses we have had so far.

Maybe.

But if not – I don’t care.

I love him anyway.


	20. Trying

I had not thought – I am not used to mortals – the dawn light wakes him. 

Blearily, his eyes open, and he stretches one hand towards me. Then he checks himself, and is about to pull back, when I catch him, hold him.

“I’m not scared of this,” I say, trying to make a joke of it, even as I wonder if he is too dismayed by the changes in me to want to touch, if it was only that he had forgotten in his sleep. I hold his hand in mine, letting my fingers run over him, learn him. He does not pull away, and after a moment, I even dare to bring his hand up to my mouth. Kiss it, and – oh he tastes good. We lie on our sides, facing each other, and I – I am just glad that I need not use the bad hand, the way we are lying, that my hair covers my – my indecent ears, that, perhaps, like this, the bad eye is not so obvious. Perhaps I look as though it is shut. 

I ache that I am so ruined for him. That his patience, his kindness is rewarded with – this. At least the hair, the nails grew back, I think. At least the scars – many of them are covered by my clothes. I – I wish – oh I wish I was as I used to be. 

I wish I was not so scarred.

I wish I had the courage to speak of it, to be honest, open with him, to find out how he feels. I remember how I thought – in hospital – I wondered if it would be less shocking to a mortal, if being used to changes with time such things would matter less. I look at him, and although he has changed, he is still himself, still shows his strength, his kindness, in his face. The changes time brings are kinder than those wrought by – by what happened.

I catch my thoughts. His face shows his character?

I do not really know him.

All I truly know – is that he lied.

I want to trust this, trust him, trust that there is something to build on, but – I am afraid. I trusted him before.

Look where it got me.

I remember, when I was small, falling from a horse. The shock, the hurt. Being so afraid it would happen again. I remember Ada lifting me. Straight back on. Saying it was the only way.

I wonder if that is true for this as well.

Somehow, I don’t think so. But – I don’t know any other way.

He is still tired. Soon he falls asleep again, and his hand drops. I look at him – and – and oh, I want to love him. I want – I want to be able to – to have sex with him, and tell myself it is not simply fucking for pleasure, I want to be able to believe we make love. But – I am so scared. 

 

 

 

There must be a way. I loved him so. I have waited so long, so bloody long, to have someone feel – anything of this. And even as I wonder if he does truly feel as I do – as I did, as I wish to still feel – I admit that I have waited so long to feel it myself, that even if he is not true, even if I am not sure – it is worth a lot to me. 

I will not let Hal take this from me too.

While he sleeps, I go to the bathroom. On impulse, I look in his washbag. Yes. There is lube. He – he was expecting more than this then.

I bite my lip. I wonder if he was expecting more than I am – if he thought – I am an elf – that I would be – perfect as I once was. I am no lizard. Fingers do not grow back. But – I wonder if he knew that. If he realised – if he realises now – how scarred I am.

He doesn’t deserve this. 

I take out the lube, and I look at it. 

It’s been a long while. But – there are some skills you don’t forget. After all, it used to be – three, four nights a week I would go out. Ready for anything.

Fortunately, I always used this hand.

 

 

 

I slip into the bed, and he – still half-asleep – rolls towards me. It is easy to reach out, to hold him, to start the kissing again and – oh this kissing is so good. Good to feel how he wants me, it is, it is, I tell myself. He does want me. It is not just that he is too dazed by sleep to remember how I am now. It will be alright. His hands travel over me, and I – I can use my good hand on him, feeling him become harder and more urgent. My other hand – I keep on his shoulder. I don’t want him to notice how odd the grip must feel. I keep kissing him deeply, not allowing him to wake enough to think, to realise fully. I need to do this, it will be alright then, it will. It must.

Surely.

Surely it will be enough.

Surely, if we do – it will make things right between us.

And somewhere inside, I know that is a lie. That it is not that simple. That – neither of us comes to this new, neither of us comes to this without our own freight.

That, after all, we fucked – I don’t know how many times that night. I could work it out, if I thought about it, but – it does not matter, however many times it was – it didn’t make any difference. 

It was wonderful.

But we still lied the next day, in among all the hard truths, we still lied, and we lied over and over.

And I don’t know how to make the lies go away.

So instead, I tell myself another lie.

This will make all well.

This will make me feel – clean – again.

He is thrusting hard into my hand, and I think I had better not wait much longer. I reach for the condom I have left open, and – I wriggle down the bed. Yes, Lobelia, I think, I do have one skill remaining. This at least, I can still do. And – this is good, I find. This – is more than good actually. I too am hard now, aroused at last, no longer scared. I use all the skill I have on him, and he – oh sweet Eru – he is saying my name – over and over – and I am still not sure if he is fully awake, but – I don’t care – he is saying my name – he wants me. Me. And the feeling is so different to all the anonymous others, that he wants me, me and – and – I let myself imagine – only me, just me, none other. I hear myself moan at the very thought – and I don’t recognise this feeling – I almost feel I might cry, I don’t understand – he wants me. I love him. I do. And perhaps he really does love me. Still I – I wonder whether it would be wiser to just stay here, please him this way, as I did those others, as I know I can – but – then I would know I was a coward. Just do it, I tell myself. It will be alright then. It will. Surely.

I – I want so to look up at his face, to know it is what he wants, but – I am afraid. Afraid to show him how I look now. In his half-woken state, he may have forgotten. I do not want him to see the missing eye, the scars, the shameful ears. So instead, I turn in his arms even as he reaches for me, I turn and pull myself onto knees and elbows, knowing my hair covers my ears, the rest hidden – Hal did not touch my back – I do not know why not. Saving it til last perhaps, I suppose.

“Please,” I say, and I hear my voice tremble and hope he will think it is with passion, hope he will not realise it is fear, fear that he will not want this, fear that he will catch sight of the scars and change his mind, fear that – that this will not be as it was, that there will be nothing left of all that passion, that wanting, but above all – fear that the aches I can feel in my legs, my arms, will be such that I can no longer do this – that I will not be able to simply forget, hide in this as I always have – that I will be in pain, will need to ask, to move, to – to have to negotiate with my ruined body as no elf should, and as he seems to hesitate, I beg for reassurance, the only way I know, “please, now, want.”

His hands are on me, running down my spine, over me, and I – I am shaking, I am so afraid, and – and it hurts – the muscles in my legs hurt so like this – but he must think it is desire, 

“Oh you look so good, want you so, been so long, so long, thought of you, and – oh fuck, you are even ready for me,” and he – he is in me. Moving, holding me still, and – and I find it is not alright. 

I am terrified. It is hurting. Not – not really, not really badly – at least – I have lived through so much worse, but that this should hurt when it never did before – it should not – but – I am so tense, so scared, and I try, I try to relax, I know where the muscles are, but – I can’t reach them, can’t make myself. 

And I hear the whisper in my head – Hal’s whisper, Hal’s voice – that says – _he doesn’t want you, not really, he wouldn’t be able to fuck you if he could see you, couldn’t fuck you with the light on, no-one wants you, not after what I did, you’re mine now, always, your precious Ada can buy you his company, his time, his pity – but he still doesn’t want you, he’s using you, he’s earning his pension from Ada, he doesn’t want you, not really, can’t you tell, can’t you feel how he doesn’t care at all, he just wants to fuck something? You’re nothing, you’re ruined, you are not an elf._

But it isn’t true, it isn’t, he is saying my name, he wants me, me, he made it clear, and I will do this – I will please him – I will, I am, I love him, I hold on to that, whatever it takes I will do it, and the voice gives up – for now – but still – it hurts. 

It never hurt before. And – I want to scream, but I mustn’t, mustn’t, and I bite the pillow, I am so scared, it is going on and on, I can’t even move enough, please him and finish it, and it hurts as though the knife is back and please no, please stop, but he won’t, it will never be over, never and he is going to hurt me, and I am powerless, held down, trapped, and please, please, I can’t, I can’t, and then – then he finishes.

I feel him pull out, and roll away, and I – I am aching and hurting and I want to cry, but I mustn’t, he has been so kind, and I – I am stupid, and it is all my fault. I wanted that, I thought I did, I wanted to be under him, I wanted him to desire me. And of course he can’t, not in the light, not anymore, how can I expect it? And I don’t deserve him, I don’t deserve anything. I remember to try, to behave normally, to lie on my side facing him, and I want to hide the hand, hide the eye – the lack of eye, but I can’t, not really, but lying like this, perhaps it isn’t too bad, perhaps he – he will hold me again. Kiss me even. It – it wasn’t so bad. It will get better. It must. Maybe another time – there might be another way that would hurt less. It – it pleased him. It did. That is what matters. He – he is so kind, I don’t deserve him. I love him so, and I am – ruined. I – I must learn to please him, to make it better for him.

And somewhere I hear these thoughts, and I could weep for what I am now. I ache for what we could have been. Another world, another life.

But – he has simply been removing the condom, dealing with it, and now, now he looks at me, and reaches for me, but I cannot stop myself flinching, and 

“Oh shit,” he says, and I think no, please, please don’t see how it is, “oh I am so crap. At any of this. I love you. I – I promised you safety and I do that to you.”

It seems I am no longer a good liar.

“I wanted it,” I whisper, and I cannot meet his eyes, “I am sorry. I – I so wanted – I love you. It – why isn’t it alright? It should be.”

Why is my body letting me down? I am an elf. I am supposed to be in control. 

But I am no longer an elf.

He reaches again, slowly, gently, and I let him touch me, stroke me, but – his hand is under my hair, as though to touch my ear, and I – I cannot. I pull away, shaking, and as he tries to follow me, I push him,

“Don’t,” I say, “don’t. Don’t touch my ear – please. You – you can’t want to. I – I am not an elf – not properly – not – please. I can’t.”

He sits up, and looks at me. It is too much. I can’t bear it. He is going to be cross. I make no sense, how can this make sense to him? He will shout, he will go. I will be alone again. Alone with Hal’s voice in my head. I want to stand, to go to the window, to turn my back on him, but – but I can’t. I don’t think I can stand easily. It hurts. 

“Legolas,” he starts, and – he doesn’t sound cross. He sounds – like he did yesterday. The squirrel voice is back. I am a little squirrel again. Oh Eru, I don’t want to be a little frightened squirrel for the rest of my life. “Legolas, you are an elf. It is not your ears that make you an elf. I won’t touch there if you don’t want me to. I – I thought it might calm you. I told you,” he sighs, “I am no good at this. I just – I am so sorry. I didn’t realise. I – please. Come here again.”

It is up to me, I realise, whether I am a frightened squirrel, or a brave squirrel. I seem to be stuck with squirrel.

I swallow, and make myself move across the bed towards him again. He stays still, waiting, and I find, like this, I can curl up to him again.

“Hold me,” I say, and then “I am sorry. I – I wanted – I wanted to make it worth your while. I wanted – that – how it was. But I don’t think it can be. And I don’t know what to do.”

Hesitantly he brings his arms round me, and when I make no move to push him away, he holds me against him. I don’t remember ever being held like this after sex. 

I don’t think I ever wanted it.

“No,” he says, after a long quiet time, and I know he has been thinking, “I don’t think it can be how it was. I was trying to be as I was. Young and desperate and – and out of control at the sight, the touch, the sound of you. I – to be honest, Legolas, it is a long time. I don’t think I am up to that sort of night at my age. You forget. And – you don’t have to make it worth my while. Daft elf. I am not doing this – any of it – for you. At least, I am – but – because I need to. For me. That sounds wrong. But – do you really, really, think somewhere inside you, that you have to pay for affection, for love, with – fucking?”

Put like that, it sounds terrible. I bite my lip.

“Yes.” I admit it. “Yes. I do. I – it never happened before. There was only you. In all the years, all the men – elves – whatever – I daresay you heard them speak at the trial – I was never – very – discriminating. But I only cared for you – I don’t know why – I didn’t want to – and – you – left. I know why. I don’t blame you, and – and now you are here, and I do trust you,” I say, hastily, untruthfully, “but – I don’t really know – how to be with you.”

He kisses the top of my head, and I think how strange it is to want to curl up, to be small, to be protected by someone who is – actually – a lot shorter – and younger – than I. 

Good though.

“I don’t know how to be with you either,” he says, “oh, I have been around. Before and since. But – I didn’t want to care for you either. You were everything I was against. Corrupt, drug using, promiscuous – very, very promiscuous. Elf. Rich. But – I did. I do. Spent years wanting to walk away. Couldn’t forget the way you – when I showed you those photos – you were so sick. Never seen anyone like that. And then – you looked up at me. Those eyes of yours. So wide, so tearful – so desperate. You had me then.”

From somewhere, I find a trace of who I used to be, as I say,  
“Good thing he only took one eye then. Or you would be really disappointed.” 

And when he laughs, I think, yes. I can do this. I can learn. 

I may be a squirrel today, but one day, one day, I will be more.  
I can learn to trust this. He does mean it.

I begin to really believe he does.

He will make the voice go away. He loves me.

He does.

“Don’t,” he says, “don’t, please. If you knew how I tried to forget that. I knew you wouldn’t have wanted me to see it. You – I didn’t know anyone could be so brave. You already had me. But – after that – you were a hero that day. Those days.”

“Days?” I say, not understanding.

“You don’t think he did all that in one day, do you? And – if you hadn’t – if you had told him – I daresay he would have had chance to have me killed. To cancel shipments. To roll out the back up plans. Go into hiding. The whole thing could have been a failure. But – he spent so long with you – he forgot the urgency. That’s why – I was so bloody angry – you deserved better from the court. But no-one would see it – no-one dared because of what you’d done. What you said you’d done. Known. And – I was a coward. I tried – oh sweet Mahal, I tried, Eomer tried – but if they thought I cared for you – because it was me that shot the bastard – I would have been in so much shit. But I – I didn’t know what to think. Didn’t have the guts to trust you. And then – when you wanted to speak to me – I was expecting you to hate me – to blame me – and – oh fuck – I hadn’t seen – up close – how hurt you were – and you just stood there and said “could you ever have loved me?” and – oh Legolas – how could you not see? I was a coward. I loved you, but I didn’t trust you. And I didn’t try hard enough to get there, to help you, didn’t have faith in you, didn’t make a good enough case for leniency for you. And I hated myself for it. And – that you forgive me – I don’t deserve it.”

I am shaking my head,

“None of it compares to what I did. Nothing changes that guilt. I deserved everything I got, everything I lost, everything. I just – I just wish – I should have thanked you. I didn’t know. No-one told me who killed him. You. You rescued me. Hero.”

He holds me,  
“Elf – love – we are not having an argument about this. You are the hero. Unlikely though it seems, my dear accountant.”

I suspect I should be cross. But – I don’t care. He can call me what he likes, so long as those arms hold me close. 

I know which of us is the hero. 

And it isn’t me.

 

 

 

The morning passes. Breakfast comes, and – I realise I have only ever eaten breakfast in bed like this once before. And that was with him. 

I remember again, all the lies, all the mistakes – but I remember also all the happiness, the giddy feelings he raised in me. And – perhaps some of that can be found again. 

Naturally, as though it is something he has done for me for years, he helps me when I struggle with knives, with teaspoons. I have learnt, painfully, slowly, to manage – but – so many of the coping mechanisms depend on being at a table. I never thought about eating in bed like this.

When I cannot cope, he laughs, and calls me puppy, and feeds me.

I daresay it is silly. I daresay some would say I should be ashamed, should strive for independence. But – tomorrow, next month, is time enough for that. Right now, it is wonderful to have someone who wants to help me.

And – I don’t think anyone ever held me like this, fed me, fussed me, had a pet name for me.

I rather like it.

He doesn’t seem to mind the scars, the damage.

He is not subtle. Carefully he drops into the conversation names, and details, of officers, friends, relations he has known who have had scars, or been maimed in some accident. I know what he is doing – he is trying to show it is not so very unusual. He may be right.

I am still not going to tie back my hair.

In the middle of one of these stories, I suddenly find my courage.

“Is it – is it very awful to look at?” I ask, “The eye – where it isn’t – I mean.” Most of the rest is hidden, well enough, but – I do wonder about that.

He pauses, and looks at me again.

“No,” he says, “no, it just – looks closed. So – a little – odd, perhaps, but not – not awful at all.” He strokes one hand down over my face, near the socket, “does it hurt?” 

I shake my head, “No. Less than any of the rest. Just – sometimes – I think if it’s cold – that might hurt. I don’t know – I have not exactly been out much.”

He nods, thinking,  
“Then – I suppose if it worries you, we could get you an eye-patch. You would make a lovely pirate.”

For a moment I am speechless, for a moment the joke is too close to the truth, pirate, smuggler, drug baron, slaver, but then – then we are both laughing. 

“I should rather like to see you in high leather boots, frock-coat, a proper pirate outfit,” he goes on, and runs his hands over my legs – and for the first time, I see that he is absolutely truthful. He wants me, he desires me as I am, because I am me. Nothing else matters to him, the scars make me no less attractive, just as the changes of time do not stop my heart from leaping when he smiles.

And – yes. This really is going to be alright. 

Better than alright.

Wonderful.

Actually, an eye-patch is not a bad idea. Not all the time, but sometimes.

Boots – well. Why not?

Why the fuck not?

I have worn a lot of more ridiculous things in my time.

 

 

 

We talk. He has booked – or apparently, Ada has booked – a late checkout of the hotel. We need not leave this room for hours. The flight is this evening, he shows me all the papers in the envelope.

I find a letter from Ada. 

He says – oh my Ada – he says he does not know why I want this dwarf, but since I do, I had best have him. For as long as I wish. And enjoy it. He is careful with his words, but I understand enough to realise that – many things have changed. There is still a job. There are now no illegal activities, no financial – hiding – to be done. That seems to have been part of the conditions this new management came in on. And, now I understand, plc it may be, but the shares – oh the shares may theoretically trade to the public – but – the majority are held by – a trust.

And the beneficiaries of the trust?

Now I understand.

Oh my Ada.

He and I have life interests. Only small ones, the income is not as it was – enough though, he assures me, and if I know my Ada there will be capital, assets hidden away. But – the main beneficiaries – are charities. Rehabilitation. 

For victims of crime.

Including trafficking.

It seems Ada has learnt something.

Or he is lying. But I will not think that. He has never outright lied to me before.

I love Ada, and he me. That has never been in doubt.

Inside the sealed envelope – Ada trusted to his honour that he would not open it – I find also – an elven dagger. Short, light, perfectly made.

There is no reason given, no explanation. I wonder what – who – he suspects I might need this against.

I put the letter to one side. I will answer later, I tell him. Tomorrow. 

At least, I will try. I don’t know where to send it, I say. The office I suppose. Would get to him eventually.

But now – now I have other things to relearn.


	21. Trying Again

Fucks sake Gimli.

He is shaking, shaking, and I have hurt him. I don’t understand, he wanted that, he couldn’t have been clearer. What have I done? 

I only did what he wanted. What he asked for. I only tried to be – as I was, so long ago, as he wants me to be.

But he is hurt.

Something – something I have done has hurt him so.

 

 

Suddenly something occurs to me. Something I never thought to ask.

Oh shit.

How do I ask?

How do you say to your – your love – your love who you don’t know well at all, who you have just hurt so – when you were tortured, my darling, did he rape you as well? 

Is that why you are so fearful?

No-one ever said that had happened – but – would they have? Would they have known? Would I have been told?

Oh shit.

 

 

 

But he comes to my arms, and – no. No it isn’t that.

Oh thank Mahal.

Would not know how to cope with that. Oh, I’d try, of course I would try, but – bloody sure I’d get it wrong.

This – this seems to be – at least partly – physical. 

Should have thought.

Those scars – the way he walks – he is not supple and lithe, not anymore.

Well. That makes two of us, I think, but I don’t say it, not like that.

Poor bastard.

I hold him, and I search for words, but all the time I am cursing myself.

Don’t bloody learn, do you?

Poor bastard, poor sodding creature.

So hurt, so fucking hurt. And I do that to him.

I promise him I will care for him, will do nothing he doesn’t want and then – then I do that.

Shit.

He knows – he knows I didn’t mean to, he knows I thought – thought he wanted it – he did want it – but – shit.

What kind of bastard am I?

Fuck.

So I hold him. I hold him and hold him, and – and I could weep for what I have done, how I have hurt him – but I can see – I am not that fucking stupid – that if I do – I will break any chance we have.

He can take much, but not pity. He does not want my pity.

 

 

 

So – hours more of talking, of reassurance, of – of trying to know each other. Trying so hard to find a way past all the lies, all the mistakes.

Oh my poor elf.

When he curls up to me, when he looks away, cannot meet my eye, and tells me he has never loved before, tells me he just – just wanted it to all be as it was, tells me he doesn’t know how to be with me – I could cry.

But that wouldn’t help.

Pity is not what he needs.

And so I search for the words – and oh fuck, this isn’t easy – to say – I have never loved anyone. I too would very much like those years to not have happened. I – and shit but I didn’t want to face him with this yet – I am no longer young, no longer – no longer have the stamina I used. 

I don’t spell it out, but – I can’t try again yet. Not these days.

I can hold him though. Tell him – tell him it will be alright. Somehow. We will make it this time.

Tell him he is my hero.

Praise him.

Poor bastard.

 

 

 

I keep trying not to look at all the scars, the missing eye, the missing fingers, keep trying to make a joke of it, but – somehow – I find my eyes linger, and I ache for what was done to him. 

Still beautiful though. 

I tell him, and I don’t think he believes me.

Well, I think, I will just have to keep bloody saying it. Over and over, every hour of every day of the rest of my life until he does.

 

 

 

Even eating breakfast – there are so many things he can’t manage to do. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, waiting for my help, “I – I just can’t – I manage better at a table. It’s not having a proper surface.”

Shit. He is actually apologising. He thinks he is – I don’t know – a nuisance. 

I take his hand – his poor hand – and I hold it, stroke over it, and I look at him, waiting for him to look up at me before I say,

“I don’t mind. I love you. It’s – fucks sake, elf – I am retired. It’s not as though I have a list of things I need to hurry on with. But – even if I did – I love you,” I notice that somehow he has butter on his nose, and I kiss it away, “silly puppy,” I say, “I don’t mind. At least – only for you. Come here. Kiss me again, pretty one, pretty puppy, yes, that’s right,” and I break him off some croissant, put it in his mouth, “there. Eat your breakfast, puppy,” I watch him, and I say, without thinking, “I only wish I had a kit-kat for you. I have thought about you and your cappuccino-covered kit-kats so often, my pretty puppy, so many nights,” and I feel myself colour, it is so obvious what I mean, and he laughs.

Mahal but he is beautiful when he laughs.

Somehow the gaps among his perfect teeth – don’t matter.

I suppose – I only think it after I have said it – it is a bit patronising. Calling him puppy. But – he looked so like a puppy wanting a walk, that day, that day we went out – I haven’t let myself think of him that way for so long – that being able to – admitting how I feel – being together at last – I can’t help it. 

And he seems to like it too.

I think – I think he has spent a long while being hard and tough, I daresay there will be more fights ahead. I think we deserve one day – just one day – of silliness.

So I hold him close, and I feed him, and he laughs up at me, and licks my fingers, and a thrill runs through me, and he can see it, and – and all is right.

Or near enough.

 

 

 

He reads his father’s letter. All of it. 

Carefully.

I think there are tears in his eye.

He loves his father – and his father loves him. That was clear enough on the phone. 

Funny really.

Thranduil, bastard, evader of the law all these years, tough, reputation for so much – responsible for so much – yet – he loves his little boy.

Even sent him a dagger.

How kind.

Not sure if that is for me, if I put a foot out of line, or what.

Best not to ask.

 

 

 

He is in my arms again, and oh the warmth of him. At first, just the warmth of holding him again, but then – then he is moving down me, and this time I am not asleep, this time I can see and feel exactly what he is doing – and oh shit – he has lost none of his skill, none at all. 

“Mahal, but that is so good,” I manage, and he – he smiles up at me, and he is as beautiful as ever in my eyes. 

“Want,” he says, and for a moment I don’t understand, and then – then I realise – he is hard against my thigh – he wants – well, I don’t know _exactly_ what he wants, but I get the basic idea. “Yes?” he asks, and I see his good hand reaching out to where the condom packet is – and I am tempted, but,

“No,” I say, “no. I – not because I don’t want it – but – let me. Lie back for me, and let me.”

He looks away, and I wonder what is wrong now, surely he understands – it is not that it would not be wonderful were I to let him – just – I need to please him too. Then I see how he is carefully keeping the sheet over himself still, and I am the one who needs to understand,

“I don’t care,” I say, “I don’t care about the scars. Any of it. None of it matters. Just – close your eyes – eye – if you feel happier, and let me. I so want to – I need to – to show you – that I want you, that I can please you, can be gentle – or not – if that is what you want next time – but now – just let me.”

He breathes, and I wonder – when was the last time someone said anything like that to him? From the look on his face – a very, very long while ago indeed. Then I see him swallow, almost nervously, and he nods. His eye flickers up to mine and away again, and then he lies next to me, and closes it, hands clenched, body tense, hair – oh my Legolas – hair carefully down over his ears.

I lie next him, and just – very gently – start by kissing again, running my hands over him, and he is wonderful to touch – the network of fine scars that cover him somehow takes nothing from his beauty. I don’t say it, I know he can’t believe it yet, but I will, I will one day persuade him to see it. The scars – they are part of who he is, what he did, his courage, his strength, but I don’t suppose he will see it yet. 

I go slowly, very slowly, and – truth be known – these days that probably suits me better than the wild passion of before – it takes a while, a lot of kissing, touching, moving down, and then moving back and kissing again for reassurance. But at last, at last, I take him into my mouth, and he is making those little noises for me, and arching, as best he can and even now I ache for him that he cannot move as he once did, but still – still it is a wonderful sight.

“Please,” he says, and I don’t know what he wants, but then – then he rolls onto his side, and he moves his legs apart and, “Please? Gimli – touch me? I – I so want – please?”

Oh fuck. He wants – he wants it – wants me to ready him – and I want him, but I have a better idea. So I lean down, and carefully, so carefully, holding him open for me, I lick at him – and he cries out, wordless but delighted – so I carry on. Over and over, gently, lovingly, teasing, I lick and kiss, and breathe, watching his reaction, enjoying his pleasure, eventually beginning to use my fingers until – until he is gasping and moving, desperate for more. I sit up, and look at him, and oh shit is this beautiful creature, spread out for me, really for me? So loving, so – so trusting – and I see his hair – he has at last forgotten – it is disarrayed, swept aside and I can see his ears, his ears, and for the first time, I don’t think – his poor ears, his damaged ears, I think – his wounded ears, his battle-scarred ears, his ears that show the hours of courage like a badge. But right now, right this moment,

“What?” I ask, “How would you have this? I – I can’t bear to hurt you again.”

“I don’t know,” he says, and there is something like – can it be – shame in his voice. “I don’t know what I can do – I don’t know – I don’t know why my body won’t do as I wish.”

Oh. Bloody elves. 

I suppose he is not used to that feeling. I pull him up into my arms, I want to comfort him, but at the same time – bloody elves.

I snort, and I don’t mean to deride him, but – 

“Fucks sake,” I say, “I know damn well why mine won’t. Because I am old. Not decrepit, not yet, but – old. I can’t – fuck – as we did that night. I wish I bloody could, now I have you again, but I can’t. Not all those positions, not upside down, not up against a wall, not tearing your clothes off, holding you down, never again. And as for – what was it – seven times in five hours, and then more in the morning – I don’t think so. Not these days. Sorry love.” I kiss him, and he clings – best he can – and – the loss I have been feeling eases to a mild regret. “I love you – all the rest – don’t get me wrong, I want it – but – I want to hold you tight and close and safe, more than anything else. I want to hear you say it over and over, and tell you all the things I have saved to tell you.”

“This first,” he says, and he is kissing me again and then, “I love you. I love you,” and all I can do is hold him, and say it back, over and over, “I love you, I love you,” and he shivers against me.

“Need it,” he says, and he is reaching for condoms – and – I can see he is about to get frustrated again because he can’t open one without tearing it, he is so desperate, and one hand is not really ideal for this. So I take it from him – and – it isn’t as nice, putting it on myself, but it’s quicker, and – I find he likes to watch. 

Interesting, I think. Bear that in mind for another day.

“How?” he says, and I can hear again that he is close to breaking with annoyance at himself, and I remember how he used – used, as though it was often – how that one night – he liked to be – on his back, standing bent forwards over something, kneeling above me and riding or on all fours, as earlier – and how all those athletic positions are taken from him. 

“Sit astride me,” I say, “sit in my lap. Let me kiss you, my elf, my love,” and he gives a little – sigh – almost – I don’t know – perhaps it is the words, and he does. Somehow – somehow I had expected him to face me – but – I don’t know why not – he doesn’t – then I realise – even that – he might not be able – and I don’t think either of us could bear that pain again. Oh my love, what I would give to go back and get there faster, save you, but I can’t, I can’t, I can only hold you so close now and his neck – so soft, so perfect – I can’t help but kiss as he lowers himself onto me – and – oh fuck. “Feels so good,” I say, and I suppose there should be a better, more loving thing to say, but there isn’t, it just does, and “oh fuck, yes. Tell me, tell me that is alright?” 

I need to know. I am so worried I will hurt him again.

I need this to be honest between us. No more lies.

But – oh I had forgotten – in all the years I had forgotten – how he sounds. How wonderful. His breathing, his gasps of delight, the way he rocks himself on me – and I am holding his cock in my hand, ensuring he is close – so close – not letting him be too quick – and – oh Durin I think I am home at last.

 

 

Afterwards, he lies in my arms, drifting in that weird elf way, and I stroke him, hold him close, feeling myself heading to sleep. He is relaxed at last, and I find – I find I dare stroke his pretty ears, his brave ears, and – he sighs – content. 

That was good.

Bloody good. Worth waiting for.

Then I think of something. Fuck, Gimli, how thick are you?

“I suppose,” I say, “we could – try the other way round, next time – if that would be easier for you. I – if you – want?”

“Hmm?” he is not really listening, but I say again,

“We don’t always have to – I am not that macho – you – if it is easier – you could – could wear the condom?” fuck, what kind of phrase is that – but I don’t know quite how else to say it.

He is very quiet for a bit, and I wonder again – how many more times – will I ever learn him – what he is thinking. I hold him, waiting, to see if there is more, and he hides his face – oh my poor Legolas – and whispers,

“No, I am alright. I know – that isn’t – isn’t what you want. I – if you like – I don’t mind using my mouth. I like that.”

Shit. He thinks I didn’t – that wasn’t good enough.

“No,” I say, and I pull him to look at me, “no, fuck, I didn’t mean – I just thought – we could. Sometimes. If you want. I – oh fuck, elf – I might rather like my sexy pirate to sweep me off my feet,” and I can feel myself colouring at the confession. 

Fuck knows why. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. 

Silly, but – well. 

We have little enough time. May as well enjoy it.

He is laughing now, and he snuggles close again, 

“Maybe,” he says, and we drift again. 

This is nice.

Very quietly he murmurs, “Love you always,” and I – I feel a pain inside me.

“I don’t have always,” I say, “I am mortal. I can’t give you always. I can only give you the time I have left.”

He smiles sleepily against me,

“Don’t care. Will follow you, will find you. Somehow. One day. Must be a way. Talk later. Tell me your truename, stuff like that. Vow.”

Oh.

“Yes,” I say, and my voice is a bit choked, “yes. I’ll wait. Or something. Talk later.”

And I hold him close at last.


	22. Ending

Kissing is sweet. So good. So much. And – as earlier – my mouth has not lost all my old skill. I can please him, and that is almost enough. And – he knows how to ensure that there is pleasure I had all but forgotten. He – he is so good to me. I don’t deserve it, I don’t deserve him – but – he seems to be happy. It is almost as though pleasing me makes him happy – and I can’t remember ever feeling like this.

He makes me feel safe.

He loves me. 

He wants me.

At first, with hands, and mouth, and then – oh then – there is a way. Carefully, gently, thinking about it, seeing how I can bend, how I can now move – and he does not seem to mind, he accepts it is unlikely to be as spontaneous, as carefree as once it was.

I try to apologise, to say something of how I feel – but he holds me, he comforts me. He says it is no matter. He says again that he is old now, that there are plenty of things we did that wild night – that one night – that he is unlikely to manage again. 

“And as for – what was it – seven times in five hours and more in the morning – I don’t think so. Not these days. Sorry love.” he says, and then, he tilts my face towards him, and kisses me, and – and that is better than anything, and he knows it too. “I love you,” he says, “all the rest – don’t get me wrong, I want it – but – I want to hold you tight and close and safe, more than anything else. I want to hear you say it over and over, and tell you all the things I have saved to tell you.”

“This first,” I say, and then, “I love you. I love you,” and he – he is saying it back at me – and – perhaps – perhaps this is real, at last – and together we find what we can do.

I never – I never dreamed – that anything could be like this. Watching him put the condom on himself – why is that so good? It shouldn’t be, it really shouldn’t, but to see him so desperate – wanting me – he does not want to wait, he does not need me to kneel, to please him – he just wants me.

Even like this.

Ruined as I am.

Because I am me.

His hands holding me, positioning me – but not – not merely for his pleasure – not even merely for my pleasure – but – to hold me, safe, close. So that I can lie my head back on his shoulder, hear his breath in my ear, his mouth on me, and – and he is saying he loves me. 

And the voice inside my head is gone. I can hear only him, only his words of love.

Not just that, this is not some fuzzy daydream, there is a lot of grunting, and pushing and oh fuck yes, and all the usual – but – it is him, and me, and I – I think this is the best I ever had.

Even if in some ways I know it probably isn’t.

Pleasure I had forgotten?

No. Pleasure I had never known. I never felt this – this – love – this honesty – before. 

 

 

Afterwards, somehow, I find the courage to say I would have this forever – and – and he wants it too. He wants me always.

I don’t know how, but I will make it happen. I will. I have been alone long enough. I love him, and I will not give this up.

I don’t know how to vow, I don’t know the words, the customs, the rituals.

And we are both too sleepy to think about it all – later.

For all he is mortal, we have time.

And he says he will tell me his truename.

Now I know I am home at last.

 

 

 

I am almost in reverie. 

Lying here. 

In his arms.

So safe.

So happy.

Worth it all.

At last.

 

 

Rattling at the door.

Piss off.

Bloody chambermaids.

Can’t they see the sodding do not disturb sign?

 

 

 

**Oh FUCK.**

 

 

 

Elrohir.

I would recognise the bastard anywhere. 

Oh fuck.

Not dead.

Covered in scars – burns – he looks, a strange triumph notes, worse than I do.

But – he is carrying – a gun.

Gun.

Fucking great sten gun. Silencer. 

It’s beautiful. Gold and white, engraved with – I don’t know – patterns – leaves I think – Ada would like that – how the fuck did he get in here, walk through the hotel with that? 

Bloody arrogant Noldor.

Legolas, that is so not the point. Not the right things to be thinking about.

Shit.

And I – I am scrambling for the blade I know I put under the pillow – old habits, he said, he laughed, he could not believe it might be needed – but – I am too slow. It has been too long.

Elrohir is not slow. 

He is an elf.

 

 

My love is dead.

One shot.

I didn’t know stens could fire one shot. Clever. Very nice.

Legolas, what the fuck is wrong with you?

How can I be thinking like this? 

I have just watched this bastard shoot my love, my true love, my One, my only.

One night. One night of truth we had.

My poor love.

All this time, waiting.

Gone.

“Fucking policeman,” he snarls, and then he looks at me, and I stare at him, witless. Not even frightened. Blank. Thoughts scrambling, running over silly things. Feeling sorry for the – whoever – who find the room – who have to clean up. Wondering who will tell Ada. How will he know what has happened? Wondering who will tell my beloved’s family? What will they think? Will his reputation – his honour – be forever tarnished? Dying this way? Have I done that to him now as well as all the rest? 

Guilt.

Sorrow.

But I am not frightened. How can I be?

There is nothing more to take.

 

 

He aims, slowly, carefully, and all the while I watch him. Still unable to move, to understand what has happened.

 

 

Fuck.

That hurts.

A lot.

Messy too.

Stupid bloody thing to think, Legolas.

What exactly would be a sensible thing to think at this moment? 

That I am glad he didn’t feel this. Didn’t see this. It was quick for him, I don’t think he even had chance to realise what was happening. 

I’m not sure he even woke.

Hold onto that. He didn’t suffer. He is alright now. 

Wherever dwarves go, he is there, safe, with his parents, friends.

But I can’t follow him. I am not a dwarf.

No.

Don’t think about that.

Concentrate on this Noldor bastard in front of you.

 

 

 

“Stomach wound,” he says, “should take you a nice long time to die. I’m going to sit and watch. Anyone comes, I’ll finish it quicker. But – you deserve it. My brother died because of you. My father imprisoned for the rest of his life. My home gone. The Valley thrown open to the world, the House seized, become a government property. The Wood burned, torched by Hal’s brothers when you were left alive, when his killer walked free. And then the reprisals. All my people killed. Many of those of the Wood, dead. So now – now there is nothing left. All the business – everything gone to your sindar kin.” 

He stops for breath, he pulls free a knife – no, I think, no, not again, I can’t, I can’t – but he simply sits with it in reach, cleaning his gun. Polishing it where it needs not polishing. He looks up at me, and, 

“Glor taught us to do this. Always take care of your weapons, and your weapons’ll take care of you. That’s what he used to say. He’s dead too, you know that? Your fault too.”

He looks down, and sighs, “mind you, I think Ada would have soon anyway. He was a bit past it,” looks up again, “although I wouldn’t tell Erestor that. He’s still alive. The only one of us all left, almost. Bloody deathshead lawyer. But you – you killed my brother. I loved my brother more than anything. You killed my brother. That’s why. You have to die, and it has to hurt. Funny, really, I remember you when we were little. You and your brothers. They’re dead too, aren’t they? Your father never had any sense, any control over any of you. Ada used to say that. Too wild. You and your mother. So that’s why. Your fault. Maybe your father’s fault too. Yes. Maybe him next.”

He is mad, I think. Genuinely, not balanced.

I almost laugh.

Not like me. I am completely sane.

 

 

Under the covers I hold the blade.

The blade I was too slow to use.

The blade my love thought unnecessary.

 

The blade I do not know how to use with the wrong hand.

 

I wonder how long before I can’t even try.

 

No. I will wait. I will listen to his ramblings, and I will wait.

That is what Ada would say to do. Wait.

For the – opportune moment.

I will kill this bastard.

He has killed my love. My love who did nothing more than his duty.

But that is not why.

He killed him simply because he was here.

He says so.

 

 

“Nice to get the policeman as well, don’t get me wrong,” he says, “but – whoever you had here – I knew you’d have someone, you always were a slut – but whoever – I’d’ve done the same – it’s you. You, Las. You are the one I can’t forgive. You betrayed us. You gave us up. Gave them all the information. Went to court. Talked.”

I blink. Nothing to say. 

Yes. 

I did.

And I was right to.

I would do it again, I realise, even now I know the cost. It was right.

But – oh if only I had sent my love away. Told him I didn’t care, told him anything, told him I didn’t believe he wanted me – anything. Hurt him. 

Then he would be alive and safe.

But I didn’t. I took what he offered – as I have always taken, and taken – and I gave – nothing. Grief and pain, fear and anguish I have given so many. And my love – death.

Oh my sweet love.

I never meant for this. 

I didn’t know.

I don’t suppose he would believe me. Too many lies.

But I did – do – so love you.

 

 

 

“Why?” he says, “Why, Las? You could have had a bigger cut, if that was what you wanted. You and your precious father. All of you damn sindar. No need to be like this. No need to kill my brother.”

“Wrong,” I say, and I find I cannot speak properly anymore, “the hobbits. Smuggling them. Slaving. Rape. Too much. Too much wrong. Couldn’t walk away.”

He shakes his head,  
“Silly Las.”

“Not Las,” I interrupt him, “not Las.”

He raises one brow, and leans a little closer.   
“Why not? Oh. Because of Hal. Poor Hal.”

I raise my brow in return. I can’t imagine why anyone would feel sorry for Hal.

“But – the hobbits,” he starts again, “silly of you, Las. They don’t feel it, you know. Mortals don’t. Not like us. They can live for years after all kinds of things. Not like us.” He laughs, “Hal would never have expected you to live after what he did. He must have thought he had won, that you would die. Otherwise he would have seen to it, not left you breathing still. Tough little fucker aren’t you? Sindar, I suppose. Bit less – special – than Noldor.”

He pauses.

I didn’t know that. 

I’m glad I didn’t know that.

He leans forward.

“Do you want to know what I’m going to do when I leave here? Once you’re dead? I’m going after your father. Going to take him down. But I’ll tell him how I found you, screwing a dwarf – no, being screwed by a dwarf. Make sure the last thing he thinks of is his precious son moaning and writhing while a dwarf fucks him.”

Not listening, I think. Not listening to this.

He leans forward again, gloating over me,

“How will that make Ada feel? Hmm? When I tell him that, when I tell him that I’ll bring down his precious company, his charity, I’ll go after every fucker that ever worked for him that I can find, every single one? Yes. I mean it. Every single one. You like any of them? Any of them friends with you? Any of them fuck you? Any of them go out drinking with you? Ever? Well, they’re dead meat now. I’ll go after them.” 

He looks at me, and I look away, not wanting to give him the satisfaction, not wanting to let him read how the thought of – of all our elves – even the ones who walked away – Canadion, oh my silly friend Canadion, my lucky friend Canadion, his burly Thiriston who saw the evil and swept him away, Finrusc the boring, Brethylf the helpful, Aglarcu the patient, Meieriel who left years ago, Arasfaron the weaselly lawyer, all of them, names and faces parade before me, but above all loyal Caradhil – oh Caradhil, you don’t deserve this – how the thought of them all pains me. They don’t deserve this psycho on their trail. None of them do. Ada lead them, and they followed – and I – I have betrayed them once again. 

“Look at me, you little piece of Sindar shit, look at me, I want to see that one eye show some remorse, some despair, some pain for what you’ve done to us all. I know what I’ll do, I’ll take your Ada your hair. Let him see you died without even your hair. Let him see you are no elf.”

He leans forward once more, his hand reaching for my hair, but – finally. 

He is close enough that even with this hand, I dare stab upwards.

That even with so long out of training, even through this sheet, my aim is true, my strength enough.

And I realise I have been kinder than he as collapses over me. Gone.

 

 

Trapping me.

Not that I had anywhere to go.

Not now.

I have no reason to go on anymore.

Which is perhaps just as well really, since I can’t.

I can’t breathe properly now. It hurts. 

So much blood. 

It hurts so bad.

I want Ada.

No. No. I will not be that ernilen, that spoiled, selfish little prince. Not anymore.

I want my beloved.

 

 

Slowly, painfully, I turn to look at him.

Not long now, I think. And – and I find I need to be near him again. From somewhere I find the strength to push this body off me, to pull myself towards him. I will have my arms round him one more time. And the effort it costs me – I can feel the pain recede, feel that it is nearly over.

It occurs to me that I should be glad it was Elrohir who found us. It could have been one of Haldir’s brothers.

Or both.

At least my love – my love – my true-love – my One – my dearest – my Gimli – at least he died quickly. Near enough painless. I – I don’t think – I don’t think I could have borne to see him suffer. 

So – thank you Eru Iluvatar. For that mercy I am grateful.

I have had my vengeance. Thank you Eru Iluvatar. For that mercy also I am grateful.

I am.

But – oh Eru Iluvatar – why? 

Why couldn’t we have had just a little longer? All those things I so wanted – he so wanted too. I know I don’t – didn’t – deserve any of it – but he did. You could have let him have some happiness. He waited so long, he was so faithful.

It wasn’t his fault.

I wish I had sent him away.

I was selfish. I didn’t think. 

Didn’t think there might be someone looking for me.

I never do. Did.

Stupid.

Over-confident.

Oh Gimli love, I am so sorry. Sorry for everything. Sorry for all the things I did, all the lies, all the mistakes, all of it.

I wish we had had time. I had so much I wanted to do with you.

I suppose I would never have persuaded you to ride with me. I think your running days were over. I don’t know if you would have taken me out on a bike – maybe not. Maybe there aren’t bikes anymore – you had a car. I didn’t even have time to ask.

But – we could have – I don’t know. I never did know. Walked maybe. Talked more. I – I wanted to dance with you. I wanted to hold your hand in a restaurant. I wanted to sit in the sun and kiss. I wanted to show you trees, and have you show me – I don’t even know what you would have shown me – rocks? I don’t know.

I wanted to go to the cinema with you. Even if we were both too old for such silliness, I wanted to kiss you in the back row. I wanted to take you to a football match – and I don’t suppose I had the money, not now, but I wanted to. I would have watched the pointless tedium on tv with you, or in a pub, or anywhere. Whatever people do now. I don’t know, in this changed world, I don’t know – I remember Olympics, gladiators, bear-baiting, jousting, hunting, opera, plays, all the different things – and I would have sat through anything to be with you.

And at the thought I notice there is indeed a tv in the room. I suppose we could have watched it earlier. We were a bit busy. Maybe we would have, in a while. Or – we could have bathed together. You might have combed my hair. Let me fuss with yours – with your beard.

That would have been nice.

So many things.

I think of the tickets, Switzerland – the keys to the chalet, our chalet, the chalet Ada built so long ago on our mountain – and of course Ada has been there all this time, of course there is money out there in unnamed, untraceable accounts. But the keys, the map, the instructions – he wasn’t going to let on, let on that I knew about it, he knew I lied, my Ada. He would have kept that secret for me.

Not that I did lie to you, my love, oh my love. I didn’t _know_ that is where he was. He didn’t tell me. 

I may have guessed, but I didn’t _know._

Oh my love. I think of the tentative conversations we were trying to have – I wanted to live with you – and you wanted that too. I suppose – you would have known how to – make coffee, mend coffee machines – cook. Maybe you would have found things for me to do – I don’t know – I never will now.

Probably I would have got under your feet, annoyed you, been foolish – distracted you – but – I think you would have forgiven me. Called me puppy, laughed at me. We would have managed.

I would have liked to try.

I wanted you to meet Ada. I know you wouldn’t really have liked him, but I – I hoped you might have been able to be pleasant to each other.

Fuck, Legolas, how stupid was that idea. But I did want it.

I wanted to share a kit-kat with you again.

Oh Gimli love, I wanted – whatever you wanted. I wanted to be with you. That’s all.

I would have liked to have made love again. Once doesn’t seem much really. Once that was right, was love. 

Be honest Legolas, I would have liked to suck you off, Gimli my love. Properly. All the way. I would have liked to have had the taste of you in my mouth, properly. No condoms. I would have liked to have had sex without condoms. Nothing between us. The way it ought to be – but it never could because – because I didn’t wait for you. I didn’t know you would ever exist. And when I knew you did – I lied and wasted the time we had.

Oh my love, I am so sorry.

And I know he hadn’t waited either, and I know he lied too, and it doesn’t matter. None of it matters now. Just that I love him. And he loved me. 

He did.

I know he did.

And he would believe me, would believe I never meant for any of this. He did believe me when I was truthful. 

I don’t think he ever doubted me, not about how I felt. Not once I had the courage to say it. Write it.

I smile for a moment, best I can, remembering. He kept that letter. He showed me. Had it in his wallet, all these years.

He loved me. We did manage to be honest together in the end.

But I wanted it to be a beginning.

I stroke his face, his hair, his beard, his ears. I try not to see the neat little hole in his forehead. I try not to notice how wet the pillow is, sodden with – with the back of his head, his brains I suppose – I don’t want to know. I love him, I tell his body, and I look at his face, his dear face, and I try to learn it, because – I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know if I will see him again.

I will.

I don’t know how long it will take me, but I will.

He found me. Twice.

I whisper it to him. This time I will find you. I promise. I will. But – try and find me too. Please. I love you so.

I lie here for a bit, just holding him, loving him so.

This really isn’t the sort of place I ever thought I would die. I don’t know where I thought I would die, but not a hotel room, not like this. 

I suppose there are worse places. A lot of worse places.

I suppose I may see Naneth, my brothers again soon. I don’t know.

Oh Ada. Now you will be alone. 

Oh my Ada. 

Sorry, Ada.

Couldn’t quite break their web. Sorry.

I wonder what dwarves believe. I am not sure what I believe. I never was. But – please Eru, I think – please – whatever there is – waiting, or judgement – or rebirth – please – please – let me be with him again.

But for longer this time.

Make the fight harder. But let me have him at my side.

I do not know his truename. He did not have time to tell me. We did not have time to say our vows. But – please.

Please.

Another world, another time.

Please.


	23. Epilogue

Thranduil sits on the porch of the chalet, enjoying the mountain air.

Waiting for his son.

Waiting, for today he will see his son again.

His son who freed him.

His so-brave son who paid that price.

His little leaf.

His lastborn.

His ernilen.

His son, who will come, with a dwarf – _a dwarf, of all creatures a dwarf_ – but he will come.

 

 

Time passes.

Even by his son’s standards, he is late.

Thranduil sits. He can wait. 

He has waited years. A few more hours is no matter.

He has no reason to think the dwarf untrustworthy.

He has good reason not to be concerned that – say – any of Haldir’s brothers will have been waiting. None from the Valley survived.

Only those he can trust for reasons of his own survived from the Wood.

 

 

At last, he sees a car stop. He sees someone get out.

An elf.

A blond elf.

But – that is not his car, sent to the airport.

That is not his son.

 

 

It is nearly half a mile from the road to the chalet. Deliberately, there is a clear view, a safety precaution.

Thranduil watches the elf slowly cross the ground towards him.

Walking is not easy for this elf. He leans heavily on a stick. Every movement slow and painful.

This is an elf for whom the gift of Man would be mercy.

 

 

“Mae govannen,” he says, and Thranduil inclines his head in return, noting how many breaths are needed for even those words. Idly he wonders how much athelas this elf now consumes every day, and what else he uses.

He waits.

The other pauses, as though he expects a reply. But he is not a friend, not a trusted colleague, barely a relation.

Thranduil waits.

The other sighs, and reaches into a pocket. He brings out some photographs and places them on the table.

Thranduil looks at the images.

His mind is slow to take them in.

Blood.

So much blood.

“Came to me. As the one nearest. He didn’t want you to be alone. Your – whatever he is now. Secretary. Sent these. It’s all over the net. I am sorry,” the other says, “my grandson – I had no idea. Truly. I did not know he was so like his father. I saw only my daughter in him. I sheltered him from you all these years. I could not bear to lose him. I knew you would kill him as you killed – had killed – Haldir’s brothers, all the others from the Valley, so many from the Wood. I am sorry. He did not tell me what he planned. I would not have let him. But he hid his mind from me. And he has done this to you.”

Thranduil does not speak. There are no words.

Nearly, he nearly sent his own elves to meet his little one. But – the dwarf – he seemed sensible. It was his own mistake, his own pride. He knew Haldir’s brothers were indeed dead – three days and three nights they paid for what Haldir did, and in the end they burned, as they had burned the Wood, while he – he watched, saw the hope die in their eyes, saw the sparks fly up, heard their cries.

He never thought of any other danger. How could he have foreseen this? All told him this spawn of Noldor was dead also. 

The dwarf – for all he was a dwarf – he was trustworthy enough. It is not his fault. No repayment required from his kin.

This one – this hidden remnant – has crept forth from his lair, from the darkness in which he hid himself, an evil thing in Spider-form, so his son – his most precious little son – so he always called them all – and their web of Shadow has destroyed that pretty leaf.

He looks at the images. His son, his little leaf, looks – looks almost content. The dwarf looks – much as any dwarf looks. Thranduil remembers speaking to him on the phone, remembers the barely veiled dislike in his voice. Remembers the way the voice softened, the gentleness with which the creature said his son’s name. Remembers wondering if he should have explained the concept of honour, of duty owed to a sworn-elf before – the dwarf could not conceal how his voice broke when he admitted his son lied in court and not to this dwarf. But how could he have known any race was so lacking in such honour that they would not know lies like that were necessary?

Yet the way the dwarf spoke – he had not known. He had spent all these years not knowing – he even said he would have been able to write, to visit little leaf had he known.

Poor little leaf.

Thranduil looks at the photos once more.

His little leaf, his ernilen is wrapped around this dwarf. How odd. And yet – he looks – he looks content. 

And it seems to Thranduil a long time since his little leaf looked so content.

“He had his revenge,” Celeborn continues, “that knife – is it one of yours? So skilled. So strong. After all these years. You taught him well.”

Indeed. There is a third body in that room, pushed aside, and Thranduil reflects that all three of the imprisoned Lord’s children are now truly dead, of violence or chosen mortality. Dead as once he so longed for them to be, dead as his own sons.

As though that is any comfort.

There is silence.

“Now what do we do?” Celeborn asks, eventually. “Now it is just you and I? Do we work together? Share what we have, our skills, keep on?”

Thranduil is silent.

He reaches out, he takes Celeborn’s wrist, as though he feels the pulse. For a long moment they sit, joined.

Still without speaking, Thranduil drops the other, and stands, turns to walk away.

“Thranduil? Oropherion? I have said – I am sorry. I had no idea he would do this, I had no knowledge of it – “

Thranduil looks back, his eyes dry, his face calm, and cold as the snow and ice on the mountain around them. He hears the fear in the other’s voice, 

“I am no kinslayer – why else do you still live?” he says, scornfully, then, “You smoke too much, you drink too much, cousin. It is fortunate for you I still have the king’s touch. I have not healed you. But now your emphysema, your cirrhosis will not kill you,” he pauses, “though there may come a time when you wish it had. You have not the courage to make your own decisions, you never did.” He laughs, mirthlessly, “Your grandson has freed my son, freed me. I will be with my family again – and you – you will linger on, until the justice of Men is served, and the long arm of the Noldor is free, and stretches out for you. For under your eyes the last son of Elrond died, under your care the Wood burned, and the Valley was seized. In your time the – trade – was lost, to my company or to others. I do not think the Noldor will be pleased with you.”

Celeborn’s eyes widen and he pales, feeling the change inside himself, as an elf can, knowing his conditions changed. Not healed, but – put into stasis.

Suffering that will not end until his wife returns.

If his wife returns. If the justice of Men is ever served.

Perhaps not speedily even then.

She is not one to be merciful.

As for his son-in-law – best not to consider that he might return first.

Thranduil sees he understands, and nods once.

He walks to the precipice overlooking the valley, hundreds of feet below.

He raises his head, he breathes the clean air one more time.

He steps forward.

Soundlessly.


End file.
